To Wish Upon a Moon
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: "I wish…more than life, more than anything…." I whisper to the moon. She is silent, weeping bright white light into the inky blanket surrounding her. I envied her comfort, and matched her in sorrow. "More than the moon—" A deal is made to find a wish.R/OC
1. I

**To Wish Upon a Moon**

**I've recently grown addicted to Once Upon a Time. Though I was in the midst of a HP Draco five-chapter piece, this particular character captivated me so much. And every other thing fict I have read about him has left me…disappointed. So, I complied with my urges and began this. It shan't be long, I swear. **

**I don't want my character to be too OC. I promise you, she is based off of a traditional fairy tale…maybe a few…and I dearly hope you like this.**

**PS: Several lines are borrowed from Into the Woods, fyi**

**DISCLAIMER: OUAT is not mine, thankyouverymuch. **

**-XXX-**

"I wish…more than life, more than anything…." I whisper to the moon. She is silent, weeping bright white light into the inky blanket surrounding her. I envied her comfort, matched her sorrow. "More than the moon—"

"Oh, I do not know about that, my dear. There is a great deal of value in the moon." A voice sounds from just behind me, breaking my reverie. Surprised, I gasp loudly. Chuckling, a few snaps of twigs underfoot, and my intruder makes himself known.

Green-gold skin shimmers beneath the night-light. A pair of wide eyes flicker, reflecting pure white orbs dead center of huge onyx pupils. Half of an angular face is masked by shadow, yet the profile is unmistakable. The devil-dealer. The imp of arrangement. Rumpelstiltskin.

His name has been tossed around in gossip circles for as long as I can remember. Always whispered, it is a name frequently paired with the shadiest of deals. He is known for his ability to change people's fate, as well as a remarkable capacity for cruelty. When unable to pay their debt, Rumpelstilskin collects his debtor's blood, families, or worse.

What could he want with me?

"Your words were summons enough, love." He leers. I shrink away from his pure chocolate gaze. Men are not my forte. I am not even certain this particular specimen qualifies as such.

Rumors flew in regards to the origins and breed of this imp. Some say he was demon's spawn, the result of an encounter between a minor princess and a demon. Others speculate he was a true man, once, but either made a deal of his own resulting in a monstrous transformation into trickster, or else regressed under the power of his own evil. Fewer still believe he was once a great mage, fallen into madness Whichever it is, the pebbled greenish-greyish-goldish skin, matted hair, and wild eyes indicated a perhaps magically-influenced existence. Besides, everyone knows of his tendency to trade his powers for favors. Though no one truly knew the extent of his magical ability.

"So, so, so," He sang. "You _wish._"

I nod, eyes falling to the ground rather than view his twisted lips and slick skin. His fingers steeple. I gaze upon them. The nails are long. Several rings rest the three center fingers of each hand. I shiver.

"Oh, come now, my beauty. You have a wish. What shall it be? A pretty new dress? A handsome prince? What could be worth more than the moon?"

"No, no, I shan't deal with you." I raise my head. "I know better. I've heard of you, and your dealings, sir."

His lips quirk. "Ah, lovely, you don't know half of it. But come, we've not even discussed terms, let alone your wish…now then…now then, you were saying?"

"It is nothing you can grant me, sir." I assure him.

He leers again, sliding closer to me. I shudder as his thin chest brushes mine. The tough leather is hard, and smells of pine. A tongue snakes out to run along the edge of his dry lips.

"Try me," Rumpelstilskin suggests. "I'm sure we can find some arrangement to your liking."

I pull away, turning back to the moon. A soft sound follows my motion, perhaps a sigh? Something to wonder at, but I move along without pause. "I tell you, sir, it is nothing you can possibly solve. This is a riddle that needs nothing more than time. Time will unravel all, I am certain."

Stalking about, circling me, his bright eyes flash. "Perhaps I might encourage time to…move along, shall we say?" He purrs. "I promise you, all of my deals are fair."

"And what sort of deal might you strike with me?"

The bright smile proves his joy at my taking his bait. He quivers with energy. These deals must be his life's blood. With a small cackle, the imp speeds up his circling. The footwork is complex, almost a dance. A great tremble, and the edge of climax is approaching. He senses my faltering confidence. It brings him a further burst of adrenaline.

"Well, well, you are most certainly ready to play the game?"

I merely stare.

He gazes back, turning his head as his body twists. The joy fades, replaced by a careful seriousness. "It depends on your wish. Some are more costly than others."

"Mine ought not cost much."

"I cannot know until you tell me," Rumpelstilskin breaths, tone tinged with impatience. Behind me now, he sneaks closer. I feel a hot burst of breath on the cool skin of my neck. My shudder brings a smile to his lips. Though I cannot see it, I can practically feel it crackle in the stale evening air.

"Want I want, more than anything else in the world," I breath, staring at the ground. The imp looms closer. "Is to know what I want. What will make me happy."

For what feels like an eternity, the night is still. Not even the cheery crickets play. The wind is silent. My breath is ballooned in my chest, held back with apprehension. Even the demon behind me cannot speak. He is considering. We wait.

Finally, with a low chuckle, my intruder wakes. Without pretense, I am spun to face the monster.

"Possibly the silliest wish I've ever heard in my thousand years." He murmurs between laughter. "Alright, alright my dear. To know what you wish, to find your happiness."

"And your price?" I ask stubbornly. "For their must be a price."

"Very good!" He sweeps me around, laughing further. "Yes, a price, a price. What would be…fair?"

It is a rhetorical inquiry. Again, I wait. When he claps his hands, a smile leads his glowing eyes.

"You, my dear, shall do this mere thing for me. I will show you what it is you wish provided you come here, twice a month. From the fullest moon to the new moon. The darkest and the bright."

"Once every fifteen days."

"Indeed. Very good."

I hold my ground, slipping from his grasp. "And for how long?"

He muses. "As long as it takes. I can only do so much. Your dream will be in front of you. All you have to do is find it. But," He pauses, slow grin building as his dry lips stretch against his thin face. "If you do not find your happiness in, say, a year…I shall take you."

Take me? He said it so simply. Take me where?

"Wherever I wish. You shall be mine."

I am taken aback. "But…that is not exactly in the deal."

He pouts. Genuinely pouts. "My dear, I am going out of my way to help _you. _This is only fair. Besides, I believe you said _'more than life, more than anything.' _So, it is your life you gamble. But fear not, you are a bright girl. Surely you shall see."

"No," I protest. "I never laid those on the table. You cannot take word undirected toward you and include them in our deal."

Almost lazily, the imp bats his eyes. "Oh, I cannot, can I?"

Without a word, he darts away. I gasp to see him next perched on a near boulder, nearly ten feet ahead of me. He looms over, eyes glinting. "If I cannot… we cannot have a deal."

I bite my lip. The imp's smile narrows.

"You have no choice, my love. Stay in this life? No, no, or else you wouldn't be here. Take my deal? You gamble little more than what you already clearly undervalue. After all, you want this more than..life. More than _anything_."

I hesitate. He is right, terribly so. What choice do I have?

"Alright. Yes." Without further adieu, I offer forth my hand. In a flash, my intruder is back. His smile is horridly wide, horridly bright. The second his palm is pressed to mine, I realize the significances of our dealing. It was trading something awfully like my soul.

**-XXX-**

**To be continued...sometime?**

**Please review! **


	2. II

**The response to this has been great guys! I'm hoping this chapter can perhaps detail where my character come from, story-wise. It's a very old, traditional tale. Perhaps I'm making a stretch, but I want to incorporate some elements of fairy tale in this.**

**Thanks, enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

Twelve months. Twenty-four visits.

I ask him why include the visitations. He shrugs from where he lounges—the truck of a fallen oak, covered in a soft carpet of moss. "I merely like to keep an eye on my collateral, that's all."

When I scowl, offended by the casual use of the term "_collateral," _Rumpelstilskin smirks. He seems to take great pleasure in irritating me.

Nestled against the base of the oak, I am quite comfortable, regardless of the imp's devious smiles. It is our third visit, and a dark moon. The pitch blackness brought difficulty to my journey, though now Rumpelstilskin's magic-made orb of blue-green light warms our clearing.

My home, a quaint estate bordering the forestline, is not more than a mile from this secluded place. The path, however, is one riddled with roots, stones, and intricate twists. In my previous appointment in the new moon, I stumbled enough so as to earn a good number of scraps and bruises. My host—as he refer to himself—found this first amusing, then troublesome as I winced through his torments. He healed me without warning, then instructs me to wait by my window now for his "guide." The guide turns out to be this orb.

It is so animated as to almost have a character. Indeed it is warm, friendly. I spread my fingers out before it and it zooms into my palm, humming. I giggle. Rumpelstilskin grins slightly at the sound.

"You ought to do that more often." He remarks.

Instantly, I sober.

Twisting so as to get a better view of me, my host raises his brows. "Would it hurt so much? You've got twenty-one of these calls to go, we may as enjoy them, my dear. They may say I am a heartless demon, but even I can appreciate a smile."

This has never occurred to me.

"On that note," He continues. "We've spent this call doing nothing but…" Pebbled hands gesture between us. "…sit. And dearie, I am growing bored."

"Well, this was all your idea," I point out. "What do you have in mind?"

I should've known better than to ask. The smirk returns. He slithers down from his perch, too eager for my liking.

"Oh, I am sure we can come up with something—"

I run over his statement. "Stories. I can tell you a story."

He pauses. Holding my breath, I watch as his fingers steeple. "Very well. A story."

Taking his sweet time, my host settles before me, legs crossed childishly. He stares up. I suddenly feel naked, though my body is layered with petticoats, gown, and cloak.

With a deep breath, I begin.

**-XXX-**

_Once upon a time, there was a young woman, the daughter of a bookbinder, who did not know what she wanted in her life. She lived comfortably with her parents and siblings in the third-largest village of the kingdom. Seeing as her father worked with so many books, she was well-read, intelligent, and a quick-minded. She had many friends, many suitors, and many opportunities. And yet, the young woman found herself wishing for…more. _

_ With seven siblings, she was often lost in a crowd in her own home, overlooked. The town was dreary, the residence little-minded, the selection and diversity of people limited. The young woman often felt lost, trapped in a world she desperately wished to understand, yet could not. _

_ So, every so often, she crept out into the woods, the forest that skirted the village, the same one everyone said was enchanted. There, she would sit and stare to the moon. Then, she would wish, wish so hard to find what she wanted out of life. This went on for some months, until her heart's calling was answered by the appearance of a powerful mage. _

_ The mage was a keen man. A mysterious creature, he was known throughout all the land as a talented sorcerer with a great capacity of cruelty. No one knew of his true history, nor of his origins. They merely recognized that he was dangerous. Children were often persuaded into good behavior when adults evoked his wretched name. Many feared him, and would chance complete failure rather than seek his aid. Though he keep all his promises, those who fell prey to his deals were known for reaching untimely deaths or pitiful fates. _

_ Even so, the girl was curious. The mage was not known for dealing with meek bookbinder's daughters. He worked with kings, lords, knight! Merchants, perhaps, or their neglected children. Why he came to her, she could not be sure. It struck her as troubling, but she listened to his offer._

_He agreed to help the girl, in exchange for her company in time with the changing of the moon. He, just like the girl, felt as though something was missing from his existence. The girl was, if anything, a distraction from the bareness. _

_So she accepted his deal. For twelve months she would visit two times a month until he bade her to go. In exchange, the mage would place the object of her desire in her fate's path. Should she fail in finding her wish, he could claim her soul. _

**-XXX-**

"Coincidence," My host murmurs.

"What?" I inquire innocently.

"Your story. It has an odd parallel to another tale I know." His eyes crinkle as the corners, almost amused.

"Many stories have variations wandering about. Counterparts that change with the region." I say vaguely.

"Very true. Tell me, my love, what did this mage do with the girl? Surely that cannot be the end!"

Slowly, I say, "That part of the tale shall become known to you in a fortnight, sir."

"Tell me."

"You sound so disappointed." I tease. He grunts, uncrossing his legs. Suppressing a smile, I watch him leap back onto his tree, huffing slightly. "Come now, you must know it's not over. But…I cannot finish it now."

"Why?" He demands.

"For not even I know the ending, not yet."

My host frowns. This does not improve his general features "You said it is a traditional tale, did you not?"

"Yet, its ending has not come. These things take time, my lord."

"How long?"

I consider. "Perhaps by our next visit."

"Speaking of…" He sits up, considering me. "You're not entirely discreet, you know, with your exits and entrances. I fear you might be seen, with the way your traipse about these woods."

Huffing, I cross my arms. "What do you suggest I do? This," I hold up his orb. "Helps well enough, but you cannot expect me to—to magic myself into grace."

He winces. "No, I'm afraid not even I can enchant gracefulness in you. This might have to do instead."

From his red waistcoat, he pulls a handkerchief, which he waves in the air. The fabric extends into a long brocade cloak. Impressed, I gasp. He presents the cloak to me, proud of his handiwork. Threads of silver run throughout the blue-green cloth, making it sparkle like water with ever motion. The interior is lined with a rich blue velvet. A silver broach in the shape of a peacock works as a clasp. It is very, very fine.

"You will pass unseen by all whenever you wear this." He declares. "Go on, try it on."

I slip the grand thing over my shoulders, locking the clasp and pulling up the hood. Grinning, I twirl, watching my skirts flare.

"Unseen to all but me," Rumpelstilkin adds dryly.

Tossing back the hood with a huff, I look up. "Then what is the point?"

"The point is for you to pass without notice by your townsfellows, silly girl. I have right enough to see you, you need not be invisible to me."

"What's the fun in that?" I grumble.

Clicking his tongue, my companion smiles saucily. "If it's not enough to entertain you, dearest, I am certain I could find something else to suit your desire for distraction." He plucks the collar of his coat, running scaly hands down his chest in a manner that leaves out all need for interpretation. Nothing is left to imagination. I allow my gaze to slide away, fighting back a blush.

"No, thank you." I say stiffly.

Again, he hops to his feet, pacing the log. The boots make an unpleasant scruffing-sound with each turn.

"Story will not always save you, my dearie." The imp warns. "Eventually, you'll need to provide something of…substance to keep these visitations from falling into dullness."

I frown. "That was not part of our deal."

"No," He agrees. "But circumstances change. Have you made any headway in discovering your wish?"

"Well, I…no. Not at all." With a sigh, I unlatch my new cloak folding it gently and placing it on my lap as I sit once more. All the while, Rumpelstilkin's caramel eyes follow my hands. He is considering.

"A month is already upon us." He observes, too casual for my liking.

"I know." Keeping my tongue in check, I look anywhere but toward him. I want nothing more than to snap, let lose biting words. Regardless of all my bravado, this creature frightens me. I know better. "It is not as though I haven't been looking. But nothing in my life has changed, my lord."

"What makes you think it wasn't there all along?"

I pause. He has a very fair point. Perhaps what I've been wanting has been under my nose the entire time. Even so, how can I bring myself to see it? If it has always been here why have I not found it?

"Without a new perspective, you cannot see past the tip of your tiny town. The horizon can be nothing but a line to you." He whispers. The wiry body has twisted down so that he may lean into my ear. When I say nothing in response, the imp slithers down to kneel beside me. "When it can be so much more—"

"What must I do?"

A sly smile creeps onto his sharp features. For a moment, he looks snake-like. The yellowed teeth glow against the blue-green light of his magic.

"For every favor your grant me, I shall give you a dream. And for every dream, you shall have a clue, some sign or symbol bringing you closer to your wish."

Suspicious, I lean back to grant myself fuller view of his face. "And that is all? No other terms? I simply do you a favor and you give me a dream? That's all there is to it?"

"Well, it must be a certain type of favor." He says delicately, gaze flickering over my figure before turning to his ghastly nails. "A very specific kind."

Again, his eyes graze my body. Unconsciously, I recoil in absolute horror. The demon wishes to—to—

"You cannot be serious!"

He beams. "Oh, but I am."

"You're a…not human. How can you even…?"

"Oh, poo." He crosses his arms, amusement overtaking his features. "How would you even know what I am? Besides, just because I am unlike doesn't mean I don't feel certain…" The eyebrows rise suggestively. "Urges.

Wincing, I scramble to make distance between us. He allows the move, watching calmly. For a moment we watch one another. Stillness overtakes the clearing. The orb almost cowers in my palm, as though sensing the discomfort between its master and its temporary keeper. I bring it close to my chest, sheltering the flickering thing like one would a frightened child.

Finally, I stand. "I—"

He approaches. Again with the circling. Twice, he's stalked me in this manner. It's irritating. Unsettling. Without a sound, he lunges forward to stop directly before me. Our noses brush. I open my mouth, emitting a shrill cry. But he does nothing but stare into my eyes, his own unblinking orbs flicker, almost as if they were searching for something in me, some answer. After several moments of this, Rumpelstilksin steps away and allows me to flee back into the woods. The magic orb does not follow. I am left to stumble in the darkness, cursing every syllable of his damn name every step of the way.


	3. III

**Please note that the rating has been increased to T.**

**-XXX-**

When I finally make it to my bed, I realize that I had left my glorious new cloak behind in the clearing. Certain he must've taken it back, I disappointedly decide not to retrieve it. It is for the best, any ways. How could I explain such a fine thing to my sisters, who would surely see it and feel envy. I am lucky—as the youngest, most of my siblings are out of the house, or at the very least, live elsewhere. Drounia, the second-eldest, lives as a lady-in-waiting for king Midas's younger daughter. My uncle Richard, who is a knight in Midas's court, called upon several favors to arrange that. The child that is his namesake, our Rich, is working on a ship. His twin, Gerard, apprentices for a clock maker. Christian, the youngest boy in the family, my best friend, works as a page and groom for Prince Thomas's stallions. Then there is Gwenifer, who works in a bakery in town. She is quite popular with the lads, or so I've heard.

As for me? My head is stuck in a book almost always. I'm learning Father's craft, as the eldest might, however, this was never the intended direction of my life. I enjoy the work, and yet…

My brother Tomas died, before he could begin working with Father. I am the only one with enough interest to even attempt to replace him. And as Father says, I have "gentle hands that long to be calloused." In other words, I'm destined to work with my limbs. They long to create things of beauty, to restore what has been lost. Ever since I was a child, the soft leather tomes stacked in my family's shop have enchanted me.

"You're gifted for it, Ophelia." He says when I show him my stitching. "Truly. If only your head was not so…pretty."

This is Father's way of telling me kindly to stop day dreaming. But I can never stop. Not until I can find direction for myself.

A new morning dawns, and to my horror I find a folded parcel on my open window sill. It is the cloak, folded, smelling of dew and lilac and _him. _It ought not surprise me he knows of my whereabouts, but still…

I shiver, clutching the cool cloth to me. Leaving the cloak is a significant message: _I can find you._

**-XXX-**

_At first, the mage was cruel and coarse. He had been out of human company for so long, and no longer care for the formalities of traditional society. Rough, he frightened his charge with his sharp wit and trickery. However, in time, this changed. Tempered by the young woman's own tongue, the mage gentled from a storm to a breeze. _

_ The young bookbinder's daughter overcame her fear to lash the mage back with a wit of her own. Though quieter, subtler, it impressed the man. _

_On each visit, the mage and the girl conversed on many subjects—the kingdom, the stars, philosophy. Over time, they grew fond of one another, and these calls no longer felt like painful obligations to the young woman. Indeed, she began to forget the true nature of her mage, and see him only as a friend, someone to share with. Truly nothing more than a man._

_The mage, too, forgot himself. He dearly wished to be a simple man, but his status and power forbade this. He was resigned to a life of magic, inconsistency, and suspension. The girl made all traces of this wash away for a brief time. _

_Time passed quickly. Soon, a year was upon them, and their agreement would be complete. _

**-XXX-**

We have reached our eight visitation. Rumpelstilskin listens with rapt attention, weaving a chain of balsamine and coriander as I speak to the moon. The symbolism behind the choice in flowers is not lost on me. Wryly, I raise my eyebrows at his choice in plants. The fiend smirks merrily. The flower chain will inevitably find its way around my neck before the night is through.

I have found myself a little more at ease in his presence; nowhere near "comfortable," but not exactly stiff with intimidation either. Words pass easily between us, and mine perhaps lack the venom they once had.

I've put off my story for quite some time, along with offering my host those oh-so specific favors he implied on our third meeting. Since that time the subject has been raised at the end of every visit. And every time the same thing has happened—I've fled. He chooses not to comment on these reactions. For the life of me I cannot discern whether they annoy or amuse the imp. Whichever it is, I pray it does not change the terms of the second deal he has offered me.

"I take it this, too, is not the end?" My host inquires, glancing up from his handiwork.

"No, not yet."

He sighs ruefully. "And I have waited so long just to hear this snippet."

"I'm sorry."

Rumpelstilskin freezes momentarily. Before I can even ask after his sudden affliction, he's on his feet, nose-tip to my nose-tip and breathing rather heavily. It's not an altogether pleasant breath either. I'm forced to wonder if he spends his mealtimes consuming onions and half-spoilt herring. But I don't have a chance to ask, for he begins to speak.

"What?" He demands. "What is it you've just said?"

Dumbfounded, I shrink down. "Uh—'I'm sorry," my lord." I squeak.

Frantic, his wide pupils search my quivering orbs. I do everything within my power to turn away, turn away, but he seizes my head, putting pressure upon my temples, forcing me to gaze up. I shiver. My teeth sink into my lower lip. For the first time in some months I am frightened.

An age passes before he restores my personal space, sitting back. Our knees brush. My automatic reaction is to pull away, but for fear of him tugging me back I stay put. As though reading my thoughts, the imp's scaly hands soon move to rest on my kneecaps.

"You apologized." He states blankly.

I blink. "Y-yes."

"Apologized."

"Yes—" I say again, but he cuts me short.

"Why? What would posses you to?"

It is my turn to stare.

"Because," I stutter. "That's just what you do when you've hurt someone, or caused them an inconvenience. You apologize."

The fiend is quiet. Then—

"You were not mocking me, then?"

"No, no," I assure him quickly. "I was doing nothing of the sort, truly. My lord."

"Very well." He finally manages. The wiry body has stopped quaking. I wonder if the jittering was a symptom of rage or something less sinister. Yet I dare not ask, though I might've prior to the last five minute's events. I feel as though we are back to square one.

Before I take my leave Rumpelstilskin asks, as he always does, of my progress on discovering my desires. This time, I am already halfway up the stony set of steps leading up into the forest. He leans against the trunk of a mighty pine, looking for all the world a merry, besotted lover watching is lady depart. The red leather of his high-collared coat gleams in the pale moonlight. I turn back, compelled to descend a few steps

"No. As you well know, I am nowhere nearer finding my wish."

He clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Come now, come now. I've place it right under your nose."

The flower chain sudden appears in his long-fingered hands. Without a word, he places it over my head. Poking my nose with the tip of one finger, he shakes his head. "We're a third of the way through, my lovely. Forgive me, but I cannot help but be under the impression that you need some help."

Scowling, I acquiesce. "Perhaps."

A sinister smirk works into his features. "You know my price, dearest."

For a moment, I consider. "How—how much?"

"I've already told you—"

"No, I mean…" I hesitate. "How _far_ will this payment go?"

Those wide eyes glow with my words. "Let us see, shall we?"

Bowing my head, I say. "Fine. A 'favor' for a dream. Does that suit you?"

"Very nicely." It comes forth as a long hiss. He shifts closer. I peek upwards. The smirk isn't nearly so menacing now. It is almost—nearly—soft. "Ah, ah, love. You move first."

Pained, I mechanically move forward. With great hesitation, I lift my face to his and tentatively press my lips to the dried pair of flaps one might describe as fish-like that acted as lips. For a moment, there is nothing, then—

His lips move against mine, crushing my flesh to him. The pebbly surface of his skin is rough, sand-like. I shudder into him. His chest brushes against mine. Somehow, I've been pressed into the trunk of the pine. The bark is none too gentle against my back, which is suddenly bare of my cloak. A pair of hands move to my waist, then migrate upwards, grazing my breasts, collarbone, then rest upon my temple.

Briefly he pulls back to stare at me, savoring my reddened cheeks and wide pupils. Then he surges again, giving my neck open-mouth kisses, sucking and licking as he pleases. I am startled by the sudden thrust of his hips, forward to grind against my pelvis. The sensation that follows both excites and shames me. A rush of heat comes to me. Rumpelstilskin groans against my skin, skimming his nose against my collar. My hands creep up to his shoulders squeezing as his body rubs into me. Heavy breath grates into my ear. Whether it is his, mine, or ours I am unsure.

My host stops himself abruptly. I am surprised. Though I am still a maiden, sharing a bedroom with two older girls has taught me enough about encounters of this nature to know this to be…gentlemanly? All of my clothes (save the cloak) have remained intact, and nothing more than my mouth is bruised. Then again…my hands fly up to my neck.

A low chuckles sounds in my ear. "Fear not, no one shall see."

Green-gold fingers caress the skin. Gooseflesh rises under this more gentle touch. The spell done, he steps away a half-pace, waiting. Uncertain, I avoid his gaze, but he takes my chin and forces me to look upon him.

"You need not fear for your maidenhood, dear-heart. I shan't take it too soon."

My shoulders sink in relief.

"But it still might become mine." He reminds me. "Our original bargain, you recall? You become mine."

"With this, you won't be able to collect."

The fiend laughs. "Perhaps you are right." He breathes. Extending a finger, he allows it to skim across the arch of my cheek. "Do not feel ashamed, lovely. You're doing nothing a thousand before haven't done in the back of barns for centuries."

"Still," I murmur. He smiles lightly.

"I shall do my best not to hurt you. Toddle on home now."

So I do. I glance backward once. Rumpelstilskin is but a dark silhouette. In that moment, it can be easy to believe that he is nothing more than a man.

**-XXX-**

**Balsamine represents impatience. Coriander is lust. So, you can see what he's trying to say here…**

**Please review! **


	4. IV

**Two in one day. Go me!**

**I'm up to chapter 9 so far…I am thinking this will be around fourteen chapters, approximately. The bulk will probably pre-curse era. **

**Edit: Following the air of Desperate Souls, I alerted the story about his wife. **

**-XXX-**

Perhaps the kiss was not so horrid, but I would not go so far as to call it pleasurable. In fact, I was determined to not mention it ever, to anyone, as long as I live. As I exited the forest, I was confident that the dream would unveil the key to my true happiness. After all, he promised.

"You stinking, filthy liar!" I hiss two weeks later from my window.

Rumpelstilskin sat on the sill, looking simultaneously insulted and amused. He crosses his arms, eyebrows raised. "Hello to you as well, dearest."

"What are you doing here?" I demand. "I was just about to leave—"

"I thought we might try something different." The fiend says smoothly. "Seeing as you are alone."

Mentally, I groan. Of course he would know Father and Mother left three days ago for the artisan's fair eighteen miles over. He would also know that my sibling had each stayed in their respective lodgings, or either snuck out to see lovers or liquior, (depending on their nature), rather than staying here as instructed. Naturally. How had this creature so thoroughly infiltrated my life?

Knowing my displeasure could only please him further, I snap, "You may as well just leave, the deal is off."

This wipes away his merriment. "No, it is not." He says icily. "It is not off until I call it off. What is this about?"

"That dream you sent? Horse shite." I sneer. "'_Symbols and signs_,' my foot. You sent me nothing more than a—than a—"

"A what?"

I blush fiercely. "Nothing to concern yourself with. But it wasn't right, I can tell you that much."

He shakes his head, grin spreading across his thin lips. "No, no, you must go on. I insist."

"I think not. I'm done with my dealing with you."

In an instant, he has crossed the room. My short hairs, the downy stuff on the back of my neck are in his grip. He tugs relentlessly. "I think not, sweet."

I gasp wordlessly, straining to move away. He only tightens his hold.

"Explain." He says calmly. "If you don't mind."

"I—" I choke. "I dreamt that I was in the forest. Running."

"Go on."

"I was following this sound, at first. Just a crashing, as though someone else was running through too. I began to catch sight of a person—barely, just a figure, a shadow among the trees. Though the chase is long, I never tire. I never catch them, either. They pick up speed, or else I am held back, but eventually…they disappear. And I wake up."

Rumpelstilkin retains his merciless grip for a few seconds, then releases me brutally. I stumble forward, catching myself on a bed post.

"That is all?"

"Yes. I cannot remember anything else."

For a moment, he considers me. I am stock-still, clinging to the bedpost, glaring. At this point I've passed "scared" and gone straight on to "mad." Erratic behavior is not a norm in my life, nor do I welcome its intrusion. Not that _he _seems to care in any particular way. So, I resign myself to a hearty scowling. Drounia would tell me to quit, that if I continued such a nasty expression I would surely develop highly unattractive wrinkles later in life. Ger would laugh, for sure, and attempt to tickle the look off my face. Thinking of them gives me hope enough to look the imp straight in the eye. In fact, I become so focused on that that it takes me several seconds to realize he is speaking.

"You silly creature. Obviously you don't yet have the willpower to face your desires."

"What do you mean?" I burst out. "If I didn't have the willpower, would I have made this arrangement with you?"

Rumpelstilskin shakes his matted tresses. "Dearie, it's deeper than that. If you were ready, you would have caught your desire. But you aren't, so it out ran you. In a word, it possesses endurance. That dream gave you everything you needed. However," He allows the word to extend unnecessarily, allowing it to linger like savoring a luscious sweet. "You are not ready."

My shoulder sink.

"No!" I cry. "I've already bargained my soul to find this, and now…how can I not be ready?"

He shrugs. "That is something you must find out for yourself. I can only provide you with the dreams. As I keep saying, everything you need is right here. You're just not _seeing _it."

My hands ball into fist. "I can _see-"_

A single finger is place on my lips, halting their movement. "Ah, ah, ah. No, my love. There is a difference between seeing and _seeing. _You've got to do more than observe."

_But how?_

He visibly softens. "You'll figure it out, in time. But for right now—"

Cutting himself off, his lowers his face to pluck a kiss from my already-pursed lips. It is long, painfully sweet. There is an edge of bitterness, but I ignore this in favor of focusing on his lips and his hands and his…I sink as he presses closer to me. My whole being feels faint. He smiles into my lips as he supports my waist. This is much less carnal than our previous encounter. With feather-lightness, we drift through several moments of careful embrace. I am adjusted to sit on the bed, without voicing protest. And then, just as last time, he stops without warning.

"I am afraid I must cut this short, dear-heart. I've got a deal to strike up with a certain cinder-sweep and another appointment to kill a prince." He winkles cheekily.

Dazed, I remain seated as he stands, adjusting his coat. A prince? What about cinders? Since when does he have other appointments? I open my mouth, hardly noting my words as I say, "You've done this before, haven't you?"

The fiend merely looks at me before disappearing with a resolute _pop. _

**-XXX-**

"Yes," He says abruptly. "I have done that sort of thing before."

Frowning vaguely, I glance up briefly from my book. Seeing that the tale I had spun for him is still in process, I have started bringing various volumes of short tales to our meeting and reading aloud. At the current moment, I am between stories. Rumpelstilskin rests beside me, eyes never straying from the ink-coloured sky above us. While I've read, I have started to wonder if he has ever had stories told to him before. He does not treat it as though it is such a foreign concept, yet his rapt attention cannot help but strike doubt. As no one ever bothered to read to him before?

"What sort of thing?" Distracted, I thumb through the selection, hoping to find something a little more upbeat than our last tale—one that doesn't end with all the primary characters dying off of the plague, or broken hearts, or other such nonsense.

He sighs. Without warning, he touches his lips briefly to my and begins caressing my temple and cheek with the tenderest of touches. Pulling back, he resumes his stargazing. "That."

"Oh." By now, nothing ought to shock me. I touch my lips. Then, I grasp the meaning to his words. "_Oh."_

"Surprised?" He is wry. I do not respond. "Everyone is. Or, they would be, if they were to know. But it is not so surprising truly. I was married, once."

This catches me off guard. I don't even know what a fractionally proper reply could be. But he doesn't give me time, continuing on as if I am not even here.

"We were together six years. I was a young man then—well, I was still a man, too. That does make a difference. She was the only daughter of a well-known potter. We lived by the sea. She loved the ocean. And rain. And painting. One thing she did particularly well was weaving. We had a fine loom…I made it, before we were wed. She loved it. Made the most beautiful fabrics with the simplest of threads." He pauses. "We were about to have our first. It was a boy. But…."

There is a long pause. I cannot even bring myself to breathe. And, through every second, his eyes never leave the glittering ceiling high above us.

"But something went wrong. She was fine that morning, but by noon…well, let us say it was a far from 'fine' as one might be and still maintain life. She had the child, small and sickly And then, soon after, she faded. Like a flower, plucked from the earth. In less than three days I lost my entire world." There is stillness. "I raised the boy. Fourteen years. And then...war came."

His eyes finally slide away from the sky. In their vastness, I can see a whole collection of pin-prick stars reflected. He smiles strangely. "But that was a long time ago. So, yes, my love, I've done that sort of thing before. For twenty years of my miserable life I loved in such a way that cannot be compared to even the most passionate of gods. And, by loss or by gain, that has made me what I am today."

No words can follow his speech. I can do nothing by look at him. What can one say to such a pitiful tale?

Nothing, I realize. I can do nothing but show him the compassion he's missed for God-knows-how-long. Gently, I ease toward him.

The scaly skin reflects in the moonlight. In comparison to mine, it is rather splendid. Mine is a dull white. His has depth and uncertain beauty. My companion watches me with guarded eyes. I press my cheek to his. After this, I slowly take his mouth to mine—the first time I've been able to touch him in such a manner without some goading. The kiss deepens. It is perhaps less sweet than others. But I cannot bring myself to truly care. His tale—opening up so unexpectedly—deserves _something, _anything to show that I understand his pain. And, though this isn't much, it is something. He doesn't push, but allows me to lead, responding cautiously to my more delicate motions. My hands work their way through his matted locks, running along his neck, then rest upon his chest. As for him, he doesn't make a single gesture to touch me in return. I am not entirely sure what to think of this.

When he does touch me, it is by the temples and he is pulling me back. I blink up slowly.

"Alright, my love." He says lightly. "You're a darling thing, I know. But let us move on from this pity."

I do not protest at the liberal use of the word. If he wants to change the subject, fine by me. Kissing him is still not my favourite use of time, however, it is not nearly as unpleasant and brutal as it once was between us.

"How about your story?" His eyes are masked in the darkness, head tilted. "The one about your mage and the bookbinder's daughter?"

**-XXX-**

_The thing that undoubtedly charmed the mage the most was stories. The bookbinder's daughter knew of the most wonderful stories in the world and could sit for hours weaving magnificent tales from her very own head to the delight of her companion. Indeed, she enchanted him with her stories, just as the stories had enraptured her as a child. She began to pity this fearsome sorcerer—her time with him revealed a sad character. No one read him stories, when he was young, or told him ancient legends of the land. _

_ Though, even between the conversation and the tales, he remained the more irritating of fiends. The girl found this both highly frustrating and charming at the same time, and could never help but go between amused and irate when she was with him. _

_ Over time, the girl saw that perhaps this most fearsome mage was cruel, ill-tempered, a trickster if ever there were, but he was also perhaps a little lonely, mistreated, pained by old sufferings. She still became angry with him from time to time, but worked to sooth these hidden pains as best she could. So, she told stories. _

_ And, for a time, they were reasonably content with one another. Perhaps even happy._

**-XXX-**

**Guys, I'm dying. Please, just a couple of reviews? Any guess as to the story I'm playing with here? Anybody? **


	5. V

By our fourteenth meeting, I'm still entirely blank. The dreams Rumpelstilskin promised come and go. And while I get closer and closer each time to catching my elusive figure, it remains leagues ahead of me. However, now I see more of the figure's features. They are lean, wiry, flexible. Shoulder-length hair. And, almost certainly, male.

A man? The mere thought causes me to wrinkle my nose. I've never had the desire to wed. All my life, I naturally assumed I would die a maid, a bookbinder who fulfilled her legacy from her father. No one had ever argued this. My bookishness is not what most look for in potential bride. And, while I am not too horrid to look at, I am no beauty. My flaws could easily fill a novel. My hair is a dull copper—_"auburn," _Father says. Mother refuses to allow me to cut it shorter than my shoulder blade. My skin is pale, but not overly so. Freckles smear all beauty there. My lips are too thick. My eyes far too wide. My nose is pert, but not in a sweet way. And my figure? Well, it is not willowy, or reed-like. I resemble a pony, rather than a swan. Truly, I am nothing special.

Surely my wish is not a man? That is simply not logical…

"Will you tell me a story?"

I rest between his legs, back pressed into his chest. My magic cloak is draped across the nearest tree branch. Warm breath brushes my neck ever so often. Head tilted back to rest upon his collar, I am very comfortable. He shifts. Fingers wind in my long locks, twirling the reddish strands this way and that.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Something…happy."

"I only know sad tales, I am afraid." I can practically hear his smile.

"Surely you know one happy story."

He stretches, flexing his feet. "Dearest, the only remotely nice yarns I know are not appropriate for your fine ears. If I wanted to muddy your snow, I'd prefer to do it without words."

"A song, then?" I whine. "You've got to know a cheery song or two."

Luckily, he laughs. "Yes, I may know one or two of those. Let me find a ballad, a ballad…ah…."

In his rough dialect, he starts a soft note.

"_My young love said to me,_

_My mother won't mind_

_And my father won't slight you_

_For your lack of kind._

_And she laid her hand on me_

_And this she did say:_

_It will not be long, love,_

_Till our wedding day._

_As she stepped away from me_

_And she moved through the fair_

_And fondly I watched her_

_Move here and move there._

_And then she made her way homeward,_

_With one star awake,_

_As the swan in the evening_

_Moved over the lake._

_The people were saying,_

_No two e'er were wed_

_But one had a sorrow_

_That never was said._

_Last night she came to me,_

_My dead love came in._

_So softly she came_

_That her feet made no din._

_As she laid her hand on me,_

_And this she did say:_

_It will not be long, love,_

_'Til our wedding day."_

"That is not too happy," I remark, thinking of his own ill-fated marriage.

He shrugs. "Not too many songs are. I'll try a few more shall I?"

"Yes." I loved his voice. It's a little rough, but warm. He doesn't sound like the singers at the fair. They are louder, showy, and belt to higher pitches than Rumpelstilskin. I shrug closer to him as he starts a quick and witty ballad about a king who lost his crown and found it on the head of a cross-eyed goat. This entices laughter with no trouble.

"Lovely," I clap my hands.

He bows his head theatrically. "I try, dear-heart. Now, will you charm us with your own beauteous voice."

"I couldn't." I protest, tucking my chin down. "Really."

My host insists. "Come now, it is only a fair. A trade. Song for a song?"

"Must I?"

"Yes," He decides.

"Couldn't we make a deal?" I offer eagerly. "My firstborn, or some such thing?"

"Mmmmmhm, I think not. Sing," He says playful. "Or I shall have to curse it out of you."

"The dealmaker of dealmakers turning down such an offer?"

My host purses his lips. Those menacingly long fingers begin tapping against my knee. I draw my skirts beneath me, biting my lip. He is all seriousness, now. "Sing, sweetness."

With a heavy sigh, I begin.

"_He's my champion my Gallant Darling,_

_He's my Caesar, a Gallant Darling,_

_I've found neither rest nor fortune_

_Since my Gallant Darling went far away._

_Once I was gentle maiden,_

_But now I'm a spent, worn-out widow,_

_My consort strongly plowing the waves,_

_Over the hills and far away._

_Every day I'm constantly enduring grief,_

_Weeping bitterly and shedding tears,_

_Because my lively lad has left me_

_And no news is told of him - alas._

_The cuckoo doesn't sing cheerfully after noon,_

_And the sound of hounds isn't heard in the nut-tree woods,_

_Nor a summer morning in a misty glen_

_Since my my lively boy went away from me._

_Gallant Darling for a while under sorrow,_

_And the land completely under black cloaks;_

_I have found neither rest nor fortune_

_Since my Gallant Darling went far away."_

"Yours is not entirely all brightness and light, lovely." He says when I finish.

"No," I agree. "I suppose not. But I don't know many. And the sad ones seem to stick to memory far better."

He shakes his head again. "For once so well read, I believe you would have known hundreds!"

I say nothing.

"Another?"

So I start another tune. It is a traditional duet, _The Elfin Knight._ I hope he recognizes it.

_Are you going to Whittingham Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;_

_Remember me to one who lives there,_

_For once he was a true love of mine._

At the first verse, my companion feature's burst into a grin. To my greatest joy, he takes up the next section of music.

_Tell her to make me a __cambric__ shirt,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_Without no seam or needlework,_

_Then she shall be a true lover of mine._

_And tell her to wash it in yonder well,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_Where never spring water or rain ever fell,_

_And she shall be a true love of mine._

I return with

_Now he has asked me questions three,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_I hope he'll answer as many for me_

_Before he shall be a true lover of mine._

_Tell him to buy me an acre of land,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_Betwixt the salt water and the sea sand,_

_Then he shall be a true lover of mine._

_And tell him to plough it with a ram's horn,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_And sow it all over with one pepper corn,_

_And he shall be a true lover of mine._

_When he has done and finished his work._

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme:_

_Oh, tell him to come and he'll have his shirt,_

_And he shall be a true lover of mine._

He joins me for the herbal choruses. It is great fun, voicing the challenges to one another. We're not the prettiest of singers. Yet, that does not matter as we blend melodies to completion. In his presence, I have never felt more relaxed. His arms wrap around me, caging me softly.

"Very fine choice."

"Thank you."

His approval is warm. "Now, was that worth your firstborn?"

"No!" I giggle. "It was not so horrid, I suppose. You never told me you could sing."

"Everyone can sing, lovely. You never told me you have a scar right here—" His long fingers brush my waist, touching the spot where the puckered line rest right under the cloth. "—nor that you raise larks and sparrows."

"Not since I was a child." I smile at the memory. My brothers had accidently killed the mother bird of a lark's nest. I was given the nestlings to watch. The thrived surprisingly under my hand. Several years later, I was given several sparrows as well. Both were given to the queen of the land, before she died, as songbirds to warm her faltering spirits. I was told by Christian they were released shortly after her last breath. Occasionally I will see one here, in the forest. They are almost like guardians, watching from the branches above.

I do not ask him how he knows these things. Rather, I lean into his neck, perfectly content to rest against my imp. But—

A loud crackling sounds in the distance. I bolt up, my eyes snapping open. High above, a series of bright colored sparks hand in the air, then plummet down to be followed by another set. Fireworks. In awe, I drift from Rumpelstilkin's side to watch the lights show. They are spectacular. What could be the cause? Shows like this are reserved only for the highest of occasions.

"Ah, the wedding."

Rumpelstilskin has appeared beside me. It strikes me, in the light of the fireworks, that his features are more than merely sharp—they are crisply witty. I do not cringe, but, rather find an urge to touch that face. It almost does not seem real. It is…striking.

Dazed, I tilt my head. "…wedding?"

He gives me an impatience glance before turning back to the lights. "Of the pretty Cinder-Girl, and the younger Prince."

Of course. I'd forgotten. Christian had been so excited—he was allowed to serve at the ball after the ceremony.

"I am afraid I must go, my dear."

"What?" I cry. "But, it's not been more than an hour."

"It's been three," He says, amused. "And I am sorry, but it is important. Another arrangement I must look upon, you see."

I don't. But I let him go, slipping on my cloak and sinking into the shadows of the forest. Every so often I am forced to look back, taking in the splendor of the celebratory fireworks. Before I enter my house, I wish upon the brightest star that the new princess and her love have the grandest of marriages.

**-XXX-**

**The three songs are **_**As She Went Through the Faire, Mo Ghile Mear, **_**and an adaptation of **_**Scarborough Fair. **_**I attempted to find Scottish or English versions, rather than Irish, as the actor is Scottish and retains his lovely dialect. **


	6. VI

**-XXX-**

"She could use a lady-in-waiting," Christian says wisely as we walk up the gravel pathway that leads to the palace gardens. "Especially someone who is…a little more common. I have a feeling that in all of this rush of becoming royal, she's not had much company. And that which she has had, well…."

I understood.

The newest princess, a shy beauty named Ella, hailed from a more common background than Snow White. Her father, a well-to-do merchant had intended to raise his daughter in the court, (or so the rumors implied) but this had failed when, upon his death, his second wife threw the girl out of luxury and comfort and into the life of a servant. Poor thing, she had dealt with quite a bit over the last eight years.

Thomas, our clean-cut younger prince, happened to mention to Christian his new wife's lonely life in the palace. Of course, my brother knew the exact young woman for the position: Me.

Father wasn't pleased; it is his dearest wish that I take on the family business, as Tomas would have. I cannot do this if I'm sitting with the Princess, gone for months at a time, improving my cross-stitch. Even so, he cannot help but see that is an opportunity. In our family, opportunities are not to be missed. Wryly, I note this and wonder if perhaps this explains my very bad decision several months in relation to a wiry green imp. We simply can't pass up a single opportunity.

Today my brother and I have come to the palace to being introductions with the new princess. According to Christian, Princess Ella brightened upon hearing his suggestion and is very excited to meet me. My brother prepares her horse for morning rides quite often, so they've had enough contact to assure me of his reliability. He knows her well enough to sense the most basic emotions.

I, too, am excited. Even if I am not deemed fit for the position, the mere chance to visit the palace is a treat in itself. It's been years since my family has been. Father was called upon King George to repair several books in the castle's library. He took Tomas and me to help him, for there were many texts. It was a grand week. I did not venture out of the library often, but on one of the occasions I caught a glimpse of our two princes—who were loud teenagers—running through the great hall. Tomas was invited to ride with them once! They seemed to like him a great deal, for he was dined with them as well, and invited to court several times before his death.

Smoothing my skirts, I look to Christian nervously. This isn't a big thing for him at all—after all, he lives here. He smiles easily. "You look very pretty."

"Thank you, Christian." I'm wearing my very finest gown, a soft sage green and gold brocade. It's a hand-me-down from Drounia, but in remarkable condition. White lace lines the cuffs, and stiff gold rope piping covers the hems of the bodice. My hair has been caught up in an intricate knot-thing. My neck aches from the tugging Mother gave me in attempting to perfect the heavy pile of curls.

"The princess should be out here…" He leads me around a corner, smiling when he see the veranda. Flowering vines creep up the sides and over the criss-cross beams ahead. And beneath them, seated at a small table, sits the princess.

She doesn't see us at first. I steal a moment to examine her. She is not much older than I, in fact, probably younger. To my surprise, the princess looks fairly nervous, biting her lip. Her hair is perfectly in place, though shorter than current fashion dictates. Her dress is a lovely silk creation, robin's egg blue, complimented with subtle ivory details. She cradles her small belly, caressing it gently. All the kingdom was abuzz about this child. Two heirs, within months of each other. Snow White's babe was due in just over three months.

"Your majesty," My brother says as we approach.

The princess glances up sharply, expression melting into one of eagerness as she stands to greet us.

"My sister, my lady,"

Warm blue eyes meet mine. "I've heard so much about you!" She says, almost breathless. "It is a pleasure."

"Likewise, highness," I say shyly, performing my very best curtsey.

Princess Ella turns to my brother. "Thank you so much, Christian."

My brother blushes, murmuring as he retreats to leave us to our tea. The princess invites me to sit.

"Oh, please call me Ella." She begs. "Nobody here seems to, not matter how much I ask."

"Of course, your—" I pause, correcting myself. "Ella."

She smiles. "It is so good to meet you. Your brother has told me so much."

"I cannot say the same," I confess. "Though I believe it is for your protection. Confidentiality."

"It is no matter. Then we're on nearly equal footing. There are enough rumors you've heard, I am sure…"

We talk for ages, leaving our tea to cool. She is quite interested in my father's business, as well as my birds. Thomas had mentioned them several times, saying they brought his mother a great deal of joy. I, in turn, ask her about the transition to royalty.

"It isn't all it is cracked up to be. Don't get me wrong, I love living here, and I love Thomas…" She drifts off with a sigh. "But sometimes, things can be…hard. I wasn't raised with a silver spoon in my mouth. I feel all out of sorts with these court women. And it can be difficult to spend any time with Thomas—he and James are always so busy. And poor Snow, she's got enough on her plate with the curse!"

Everyone has heard of the curse. The mysterious spell the Queen hinted about at Princess Snow White and Prince James's wedding. I feel a rush of sympathy for both princesses.

"Has there not been any headway in preventing it's hold?"

The princess shakes her head sadly. "Nothing. The only person who could know is elusive, at best. Though, we're doing everything we can to find them."

I inquire, "Who is this person?"

Ella wrinkles her nose delicately. "I am not even certain you could call them a person, really, but…well, he looks slightly human."

"He?"

She lowers her voice. "Rumpelstilskin."

My blood stops circulating completely. I feel entirely cold. "The trickster?"

"Yes," She exclaims.

"And why…why him?"

Ella looks down at her bump, stroking it with the softest of hands. "Because…he is a threat not only to our kingdom, but also…."

In horror, I recoil. "Your baby? He's threatened your child?"

Shyly, and in a very low voice, Ella launches into the story of the ball, her deal, and how she told Thomas. It is a halting tale. I get the sense that I'm the only one she's opened up to on this matter, aside from family. Pride briefly flares in me.

"What does your husband intend to do?" I ask in a gentle tone.

"I…do not know."

Instantly, I sense a lie. No father could muddle away while his child was in danger, let alone a prince with so many resources at his fingertips. But I allow the false words to slip by, murmuring words of sympathy. I would discover the plot later.

A tiny voice inside of me speaks, however, curious.

_ "Why ever would you do that? Why not let them catch the fiend?"_

I catch myself. _"Because…I'm still tied to his deal. I need him free." _

Even as I think the words, I know I've caught a second falsehood today; one from myself. Upon closer examination, I find that I cannot describe my motivation behind seeking the preservation of the imp, merely that any action contrary feels terribly wrong.

Eventually, my visit with the princess comes to a close. Christian finds us, saying that Thomas is seeking his bride, and that I really must be going home. Ella stands, embracing me freely. She tells me most passionately that she dearly hopes that we might meet again, soon, if it is convenient. I agree readily. I very much like this princess. She is, as my brother promised, commonly bred. We've gotten along nicely.

Instead of leading me home, Christian takes us to the kitchens. Just as I had expected. Perfect.

A small cluster of dwarves sit in one corner, dining hungrily on beef stew and coarse wheat bread. When the cook plunks down our bowls, Christian goes to join them, calling out their names. We're greeted with grunts (but friendly grunts), and my brother strikes up a conversation with one, who has a thick black beard and even thicker arms. I'm left to converse with another red-headed fellow. He's friendly enough, and most open. When I inquire after his business in the palace, he touches the side of his nose, eyes twinkling.

"Most interesting thing, miss," He says. "We're working in the dungeons."

"Expanding them?" I ask, surprised. When surely do not have that many criminals.

"An expansion of sorts. Something a little more…special."

He goes on to tell me of the single cell he and the others are carving from stone, enchanted to hold the very worst kind of criminals.

"Is it for no one in particular?" I ask innocently.

Between the dwarves and the lady's maid who soon joins us, I find the true plot Prince Thomas and James have concocted against my imp. It sickens me to despair. Christian senses my discomfort and hurries me home, likely fearing Father's wrath should I take ill at the palace. Once home, I wait only for my brother to ride back to the royal stables. Once his horse's hooves can no longer be heard against the cobbles, I race downstairs, and into the forest.

**-XXX-**

**Reviews would be cool! I've had a couple of guesses, but nobody had hit it yet. **


	7. VII

**I would really appreciate some reviews, m'dears. I know my audience isn't too large as it is, but feedback would simply be amazing. What do you think so far? I've gotten up to chapter 14 typed. **

**-XXX-**

"Rumpelstilskin!"

A loud pop sounds behind me, echoing through the clearing and into the woods surrounding the secluded field. I spin, hands on hips to see him lounging on his usual log, staring into the sky. When his amber eyes flicker to me, I see that they are laced with heavy curiosity.

"How nice of you to call, for once, my dear. And in broad daylight, too. Someone is growing bold."

"Stop," I snap. "Stop with the bravado, this is—"

"In your finery too!" This causes him to perk up. My gown is given a thorough examination, with his gaze lingering upon my chest and neck excessively. I feel extremely exposed, though I am fully dressed. "Expensive, lovely. What can the occasion be?"

"This is important." I repeat. Fuming, I stalk toward him. Uncaring, he doesn't shift an inch. The eyes are unblinking as I continue. "At the palace, I heard…I heard…"

The suspense fails to spark interest. Indeed, my companion seems not to even be listening.

"My lord, I heard something that concerns you dearly. Surely it must be of some relevance to you?"

But he changes the subject. "Surely I have taught you better, dear-heart. You're not even going to haggle with me a little?"

In horror, I recoil. "This concerns your life. It is not something to play over, my lord. I could not do that with any conscience. Now please, listen, it is something of grave consequence, and I fear—"

Again, he cuts past me rudely. Rude is not, however, wholly unexpected. Though, this behavior is unfamiliar, considering out recent closeness. I am confused.

"You still have one of those, do you? It has not yet rotted out, or flown away? I would have thought, my dear, your pretty little conscience would be long, long gone." He sang. Legs crossed, his left foot jiggles in the air. "Out, out, out and away."

I stare. "My lord…they intend to capture you. The word is around the palace that the new princess plans to ensnare you while renegotiating the terms of your contract."

The reaction I receive isn't anything special. Rumpelstilskin's gaze doesn't leave the sky. Instead, they focus almost more intently. The pupils seem almost frozen caught in the sheer glory of an afternoon skyline. In them, I see thin stratus clouds reflected. Their beauty is enhance in this tinier view. For a second I allow myself the marvel of his eyes. Then—

In a low voice, he manages, "Have you found your wish yet?"

Fury over takes my vision. Without thinking, I crawl up the fallen trunk, straddling the imp. My glare is formidable—the same one that is used on my siblings when they interrupt my reading—but this, too, has no effect. He simply lets his head fall back, chuckling lightly. Afterwards, he repeats his question.

"No, you bloody fool, I have not solved your damned riddle. I don't intend to anytime soon, not until you _listen!_" I hiss. My fist pummel the stiff, high-collared jacket once, twice, three…a great many times. Bored, the imp catches them with one long-fingered hand.

"You ought to consider it more seriously," He tells me, frowning. "This is your future, Ophelia."

"'Seriously?' My 'future?'" I growl, yanking his collar. "You hypocritical—"

Suddenly, I stop. _Ophelia. _

In eleven months, I had never heard my name fall from his lips. Ever. I wasn't even sure he knew it.

And then I can see it. Why he's doing this. Why he is acting like my report doesn't matter in the slightest.

"What?"

I blink. "You..."

He sits up (which is a quite a feat, considering I am still astride his torso), catching my chin. "My love—"

"You know. You know everything." I whisper, pulling away.

Rumpelstilskin smiles unpretentiously. His air is effortless. "Oh, yes. Well, of course. Naturally. What would you expect?"

How could I have forgotten that one aspect to the myth? In all the stories, the imp won the upper hand as the result of his insight into the future. His seer's eyes, which is rumored to come on his beckoning—rare, even for the most talented fortune tellers. That's why he has always sought deals. He already knows the outcome. Everyone knows this. It's common knowledge. A fact.

How had I forgotten?

"Ophelia?" He asks, locking eyes with me when I do not respond promptly.

My name. Again.

When he touches my cheek I am broken from my reverie. The rough friction of his flesh against mine is familiar. Surprisingly comforting.

"What are you going to do?" I whisper. "How can you—can you evade this-? Rumpelstilksin, they've got a plan, they're building a prison, a hole in the ground—"

I am hysterical. My imp touches my temples, wide eyes boring into me. It is no use. I'm breathing as though I've run the entire perimeter of the forest. And then some. My chest labors to catch some air, but it is a losing battle. Faintly, I sit back, sinking the palms of my hand into the mossy surface of the tree.

Looking into my eyes intently, Rumpelstilskin says, "I will do what is necessary. What needs to occur."

"You're going to let them take you," Dully, I close my eyes. "You're going along with it. And you knew."

"Of course." He repeats. "Does it bother you?"

"How can it not?" I snap. "You're falling right into their hands. You're submitting. Whose knows what they will do to you. Foolish, foolish thing to do. King George is not renown for excessive kindesses. Oh, you stupid imp!"

He merely smiles. "And what of our deal?"

"Oh, damn the deal!" I wave my hands, raging. "Forget the deal. It won't matter if I lose if you're just going to be locked up twenty leagues under the ground in a box of lead. I can't belong to you then, you great oaf."

The grin simply increases. "So, you don't care then?" He asks casually. "About the deal?"

"Not now!"

With that being said, he stands swiftly. "Alright then, my dear. I'll see you in a few days. Don't forget your cloak."

Wordless, I stand too. My hands are balled into fists. He ignores all of this, hopping off the log. I repeat the motion.

"What are you doing? We've got to figure this out! We've got to find a way around this trap-thing they have set for you. There isn't time to wait, twiddling our thumbs like dunces, we need—"

He rounds on my, causing me to slam into his chest.

"Ah, no. There is nothing '_we' _need to do. You're going back home like a good girl. There is nothing to figure. What will happen will happen. Now, I shall see you at the next moon, shall I? Be sweet?" He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. "Go on."

But I don't move until he barks, "Home, Ophelia. Now. Go."

**-XXX-**

The next time we see one another, I do not even let him speak. "You cannot do this. It's foolish. You're not a fool."

"How did you like your last dream?"

He's testing my patience. There is nothing more annoying than the continuous switching of subject. None of this matters. There are distractions, and pitiful ones at that. Scowling, I stomp across the knee-high sea of grass toward him.

"Stop. I cannot let you do this."

"You don't have a choice, dear-heart." He shrugs. "Tis fate. Nothing that can be dealt by even my hand. You understand."

But I don't. "There must be something you can do." I insist.

He shakes me off. "Tell me, have you caught your mysterious figure?"

I do not respond. Last night was the closest I've gotten to ensnaring my chase. The hem of his shirt had touched my hand. By the time I had closed my grip, however, it was too late. He had darted through the trees, which echoed his soft laughter, mocking yet another one of my defeats.

"No."

Rumpelstilskin sighs. "You are so close! So very close! I fear that you will not reach it in time, and then where will you be? Come, come, lovely. It is so _simple! _All you have to do is _look." _

Oh, have I been looking. I desperately want to find the answer to the riddle of my wish. But he takes precedence just right now. The trap would be sprung in a fortnight. Practically no time at all.

"It shouldn't be long now," He assures me. "Even you cannot miss the signs. They are clearer than day. Especially considering…timely developments."

"Please," I beg him. "Don't let them do this. It isn't fair. I mean, these deals…they're you. It is how you like. Surely, you can get out of this. You're Rumpelstilskin."

"Yes, that I am." The murmur is half bitter. "The dealmaker of all dealmakers."

"The trickster. So pull a ruse now."

His smile is crooked. "Sorry."

I grit my teeth. "Oh, the one time you're asked to do the immoral, you suddenly find your sense of right and wrong. The irony is killing me."

"Isn't it? I am sorry," He almost sounds honest. "But some things must happen, regardless if we agree with them or not. It will not be so bad. I shan't let them shackle me to that pit quite yet. Besides…" The gaze darkens. "Something is coming. Soon. Something that will end all happy endings. It will not matter who has won or lost, in this life, this place…we will all begin again."

I do not understand his words. Nevertheless, they frighten me. My emotions sore to painful heights. Tears weld in the corners of my eyes. I can feel a headache coming on.

"Rumpelstilskin," I choke out. "Please, you mustn't."

"But I must." He pats my cheek, nearly patronizing. "Will you give me a parting gift, lovely? How about the end of that story?"

"No," I manage after several moments of sniffling. "No. Come back. At the next moon come back to me and…the story will be done."

For a long moment, he searches my eyes, which are most likely bright pink. They're already sore. He takes my head in his hands, using his thumbs to brush the delicate wet skin below my eyes. A look akin to hesitation passes over his green-gold features before he lowers his lips to mine. We go at a slow pace, savoring each second. I almost taste regret as I tentatively bite his lower lips. It passes. The kiss doesn't have passion, but something akin to sorrow. This doesn't bother me as I might've thought.

We part sluggishly, Rumpelstilskins only saying, "Alright. Next time, then."

**-XXX-**


	8. IIX

**-XXX—-**

I've been running for so long. So many nights I've flew through these woods. And it is always the same. I get close. But not close enough. Tonight, though…tonight, will make the difference. I don't intend to lose much more. Not after what will be occurring…but I mustn't think of it. I turn my focus back to the forest and her sounds.

A soft snap alerts me to his approaching. I straighten instantly. The figure crosses my vision after several more seconds. Passing through the trees, I can make out the familiar gait. It strikes me that this shape is…no.

Carefully, so as to limit my sound, I step forward, weaving between the brush and trucks that hinder my way. For several minutes I succeed it limiting noise. The distance between us has not improved greatly, as I cannot walk very fast, let alone run. But with time, I might—

"_Snap!"_

It is a small sound. The tiniest of twigs breaking underfoot. Nevertheless, my figure promptly freezes. _One. Two. Three_…

He breaks out into a sprint. I curse under my breath and launch myself forward. Bushes and brambles tear at my arms. Stumbling occurs frequently with so many roots underfoot. I ignore them. I do not have the time. Tonight…it must be tonight! So I fly through the forest, cloak whipping out behind me like a pair of dark angelic wings.

Soon, I am on his feet. Like every time, he doesn't turn back to look at me, instinctively knowing my approximate distance from his heels. Knowing who is pursuing him. We know the game. It is the same as every evening we play.

A branch shoots forward to smack me in the face. I taste iron and rust in my mouth, hot. My eyes swell with tears. I surge on, fueled by his laughter. For he does laugh. As always.

He swerves abruptly. I spin on my heels, turning with all of my power. It's difficult; we're on the crest of a steep hill.

And then, for the first time, he trips up. A root collides with his foot. I lunge.

I land on top of him. To my surprise, he readily catches me, wrapping arms tightly around my shoulders and curling around me. We tumble together down the face of the hill. I utter a faint scream when my back hits the various stones and plants. Oh, gods, it hurts so much…I'm already battered.

We when manage to stop, he stretches out on top of me. I wince, moaning slightly. Every inch of my flesh aches. Luckily, nothing _feels _broken. I swallow back a bit of blood, turning to examine my prey's face. But I cannot make anything out. He's above me, and we're at such a low point in the wood that hardly any light filters down. Beneath him I wriggle, begging for release. He pauses for a moment, then consents to allow me to stand, pulling me up by my wrists.

"Thank you," I murmur. Brushing back a wing of hair from my forehead, I wince. More injury. Instantly, he's back before me, probing my head and examining the cut.

"It's fine," I assure him. "But we ought to look at you. You took most of that, going down the hill."

He laughs quietly, chest shaking.

"Please?"

He allows me to lead him toward a patch of light. I pull his hands and wrist up first. They are scraped terribly. For a second, I miss the sheen of the skin. I suppose I've seen it so many times now, it is perfectly normal to be. This skin, on this hand and these wrists, is green-gold. But this little fact passes me over as I feel for broken bones.

"Nothing seems to be broken, or fractured," I tell him, glancing up quickly only to turn back to the wrists. Bruises have already began forming.

I quickly glance back up at the face, feeling…unsettled.

A wide grin is set firmly on the mouth of my chase. His dark eyes flicker over me, vastly amused. Before I can even begin to mentally form words, however, the scene starts to melt together. The sky, the trees…fading. Melding together. And our roles are reversed. He suddenly grips my wrists tightly, mouth to my ear. Ragged breath breaks my already faint focus and everything shatters.

I'm waking up.

**-XXX-**

When I get to the clearing that night, I go straight into his arms without a word. He lets me, sighing. We don't speak for a long, long time.

"Finish the story," He rasps into my neck. I lean into him heavily, pushing back a fresh wave of tears.

"Yes, yes, of course." I promise in a low breath. My fingers tangle in his wavy hair, but I do not extract myself.

**-XXX-**

_Yes, they were happy. Even so, they didn't notice their own joyous nature. The months passed, time drew closer and closer. The bookbinder's daughter couldn't seem to discern her wish, though she tried all that she might to find it. _

_ While this occurred, a plot surfaced in regards to the mage. Some most injured men longed to capture this trickster and plotted against him. They built him a cage, hatching a simple plan to ensnare the magician. The bookbinder's girl happened upon this scheme, and hurried to tell her companion. But he merely laughed, assuring her that all was merry and well._

_ She pleaded with her friend to see reason, to evade the cruelties of this most unkind world, to leave. Nothing would please her more than his well-being. Yet he put her off, telling her strictly to focus on her own problems—her agreement with him—rather than meddling in his affairs. No matter how much she begged, he brushed those fears aside. Nothing would make him see the danger._

_ Eventually,__their last meeting came. Unable to find her wish, the young woman consented to their original deal. The mage kindly revealed her most beloved ambitions and they parted, both having won, and both having lost. _

**-XXX-**

"That's not the end." He tells me.

"It's my story, and that's how it ended."

Rumpelstilskin shakes his matted waves. "Ah-ah. No. You see, you left out the dreams. The dreams the mage had given her, to aid her search."

"She didn't have dreams."

"Oh, I think she did." A cool smile slides into his expression. Twirling a lock of my hair, he sings gently, "_High is the moon tonight, hiding its guiding light..."  
><em>

My mind finishes the rest.

_Heaven and earth do sleep.  
>Still in the dark so deep<br>I will the darkness sweep._

"Stop," I tell him.

"She had dreams, beautiful dreams." He sings. There is a pause. "Will you tell me of your dreams?"

I frown. "No."

"You won," He tells me seriously, accusing. "You've won the deal."

"Not if I refuse to accept the winnings."

Rumpelstilskin laughs merrily. "Oh, but that was not part of our deal, lovely. You don't have to necessarily like the winnings of the wages, eh? So, your wish." He steps back, arms wide. "Do with it what you please."

"I'd be pleased if he was not behaving so stupidly."

Pouting in a most mocking manner, his hands go to his hips. "You know I can do nothing to change that, lovely."

"Oh, then what use are you?"

"Probably of little," He admits sagely. "Are you angry?"

Whispering, "Yes."

The kiss is bruising, crushing. I squeak as he presses against me, mauling my mouth ruthlessly, as though he is attempting to ravage me barren before our departure. Long-fingered hands pluck at the collar of my dress, tangle in my hair, then move to caresses every inch of my waist and chest. He savagely grinds into me, guiding my hips to move along with his thrusts. I gasp as the heat builds in the lower part of my body. The brutal kiss deepens. I can feel him smile. His mouth detaches itself from mine only to find my neck so that it might lick and bite and suck, till it reaches my breasts, which both receive attentions. I whimper, a sound I've never released in my life.

My body is on fire. I've never felt so much pressure in myself before. I mew as he overtakes my flesh, turning me in his hands as a potter would a thrown vase. The pressure builds with each second. He denies me release until we pause briefly.

With half-lidded eyes, he asks, "Is this what you wish, Ophelia?"

"Oh…yes," I manage.

That is all he needs.

**-XXX-**

Our time must come to an end. We stand, nose-tip to nose-tip before the stone steps that lead out of the clearing. I cannot open my eyes, for fear that when I open them, he shall be gone. This moment is too peace to be broke, anyhow.

And yet….

"I am being summoned." He says suddenly.

My eyes fly open. "To the palace?"

He does not answer, but pulls himself from me. In a few long strides he has returned to the log to fetch his patchwork jacket, shrugging it on and tugging at its loose scraps that line the hems. I bite back my more rude remarks to beg, "Don't go. Stay, stay with me. You're my wish. And that is my will."

When he's at my side again it is to skim my cheeks with his knuckles. "I never said anything about obedience."

I choke. "Don't go. Don't go. Please…you cannot. I don't even know if I will—will—"

"See me again?" He finishes gravely. "I told you. This must be done. Something is to come, something horrible, and if I do not see it along..." He drifts off.

"No," I am fierce. "This isn't fair. I won."

He laughs then. "You did. And I am yours. Silly girl, you have a good intuition. Use what you have and...I am certain it shan't be long before we see one another."

This does nothing to comfort me in the slightest. "I do not see why you must do this."

He doesn't respond, merely presses his forehead to mine. We stand, frozen once more until a shiver passes through him. "I must go. It is time."

Before he can turn away, I frantically catch the sides of his face, forcing my lips to his, hungrily moving them against his dry flesh. His amusement flows through me, but he lets me kiss him for several seconds. Finally, he backs away.

"Ophelia." He says simply.

**-XXX-**

I do not dare touch the girl again, for fear of being temped away from my meeting with the Cinder-girl. Her babe is still ripening, but I am eager to see the progress nonetheless.

She nods, stepping back.

"You've got a good intuition. As I've said before, everything you need is already here before." My eyes are drawn to the cloak I gifted her with months and months ago. I dearly hope she understands my meaning. Confusion muddles her mind, but she will comprehend in a few days, perhaps.

With nothing left to say, I lock eyes with her—not for the last time, but for a while. And with that, I turn away, stepping into the gardens of King George's palace.

Cinderella may be quite a beauty, but in her presence my mind is focused upon business. I shove all thoughts of Ophelia away, though her sweet scent clings to me, making it difficult to think of the task at hand.

"A little bird told me you'd like to speak….Oh?...That's not what I do."

And so it begins.

**-XXX-**

**The song fragment used here is from "The Sky the Dawn and the Sun."**

**Please, please, please, give me a review! I don't like to beg, but the lack of feedback I've had lately is making me nervous. What do you think? I see alerts and favs, but nobody is saying anything. The holidays and winter break are upon a lot of us, and I know that brings about a strange mixture of lazy/busy. But please, I'm dying here. **

**I have everything up to chapter 16 typed and ready to go. From this point I think I'll update once every three days or so, maybe a little more when school begins again. From the direction I'm going, I think we'll reach about twenty-one chapters. Seeing as the series hasn't come to a conclusion, I might stop at a neutral point, with the possibility to continuing when we reach a definite point in the show. **

**Thank you for the support so far! **


	9. IX

**I warn you this is a little short. Even so, I hope you like it. **

**Okay, we've come to the point where I've got to ask an important question-but at the end of the chapter! Watch out for it, I genuinelly want to know what you think. **

**-XXX-**

"…Of course, the curse has to be enacted, of course," I poke the air.

The queen stands before me, livid. "Tell me what I did wrong."

"For that there is a price!"

"What do you want?"

I coo, leaning forward. "Simple. In this new land, I want comfort. I want a good life—"

"Fine!" She cuts across."You'll have an estate, be rich."

"I wasn't _finish_!" I snap. "There's more!"

"There always is with you." She grumbles, but lets me continue.

"In this new land, should I ever come to you for any reason, you must heed my every request. You must do whatever I say. So long as I say…" I let the thought suspend before tossing it to her. "Please!"

"You do realize should I succeed, you won't remember any of this?" She sneers.

Ah, clever girl, catching that part. However, would she think I would demand all this if I were to not see my reward?

"Oh, well then, what's the harm?"

"Deal." She smiles, clearly believe to have gotten the better bargain.

"Ah-ah-ha. Still not done!" I waggle my finger in her face. "In this land, this time, there is a girl. A bookbinder's youngest daughter. In this new land, I want her with me. I want her comfortable as well, away from her family and…content. "

The _"t" _is punctuated nicely. I darken my gaze, daring the queen to ask what I know burns inside of her.

"A bookbinder's daughter?" The queen asks incredulously. "For what cause?"

I examine my nails. "That is my business, thank you. Will it be done?"

"Yes," She decides. "Now, what must I do to enact this curse?"

I smile. The ball is rolling. It is only a matter of time.

**-XXX-**

Dark grey stone, a cold slate, covers everything. It is as if this place has been chiseled from a charcoal heart. I shiver as I pass the pair of giants that stand watch over the heavy iron door. Sleeping Dust does the trick for them—though it is a heavy dose—and I quietly thank our village herb woman for her talent with basic green magic. Now, on to the cage.

As I pass the torches, I feel the pity rise in my heart. This place is dank, cold, lightless, completely horrible. How could they just lock him up down here, and neglect him. Regardless of what he's done, he is a living creature. He needs air and sunlight just as the rest of us do.

The further in, the ceiling rises to add more height until one enters an antechamber. Thick spikes rise from the ground and ceiling, the teeth of a fearsome beast. At the top, there is a small window, letting in just a sliver of pale, clean moonlight. And in the shadows, curled in the corner of the miserable little cell—

"Hahaha, I told you everything you needed was already with you."

From that corner he creeps into view, eyes heavily shadowed. Teeth, which are far yellower than before, flash. In the dim and flickering light, his skin appears scaly, and glitters. The already mussy hair is lank and greasy. He's at the bars quickly, clinging to the spikes.

"My lovely little bookbinder's daughter," He breathes. "Come to visit her demon, her fearsome mage." There is mad laughter. "Why, beauty, have you come to me on this night? You know what night it is." His voice drops.

The entire kingdom has been in a furious rush of confusion for the past several days. We had a princess coming, and with her, a dark curse. Needless to say, things have been tense.

"How are you?" I approach, hesitant.

His expression alters to something a little more savage. "Two months. Two months, and I have had to pick and pry to find anything about this babe. They've not acted kindly—rarely a meal passes without some sedative being slipped into my drink." The _ink _ in this last word is punctured painfully. "Makes the visions come far more frequently…yet they do not want to listen."

"And oh, to look about your most beauteous face…" A single finger is extended to trace my jaw. Unconsciously, I lean into the touch. "…I would fear I am dreaming, my dear, if I hadn't foreseen your coming. My most resourceful Ophelia."

He savors his moment. I come closer, wrapping my hands around the bars. "It is tonight, then?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Soon," He hisses. "We shall be gone from this place."

Hands find my waist and I am thrust into the bars. His hands burn feverishly. High above, the tiny window darkens. I strain my neck to see dark, smoky clouds ahead. A storm.

"It's here, it's here," He chants. Lips are pressed to my neck. I shudder into him. Cold has sweep over the cell. The clouds shift through the small opening in the ceiling to curl around us.

"Where are we going?" I ask breathlessly.

"Someplace horrible!" His cackle is broken. And I think, _"What could be worse than this?" _

The darkness begins to wrap around us, twisting to cover our bodies. Frighten, I push closer to Rumpelstilskin, who seems not afraid, but rather excited and energized. How can he be _enjoying _this? His hands roam my body, not offering much comfort. He takes my lips ferociously, saying as he pulls away, "Whatever world or land we find ourselves in, we'll be together. I promise you. You may not recall this life, but I shan't let you go. I swear it. We'll be together."

Confusion prevents my understanding. The dark clouds overtake my vision, forcing me to reach out to him. But empty air slips though my fingers and I am left screaming. Soon, the clouds fill my lungs as well, and it is all I can do to keep my mind awake wondering.  
><em>"<em>_Where?"_

**-XXX-**

**Strick asked a good question: Will this go into Storybrook?**

**The answer is yes, naturally! I'm at chapter 20 now. I was wrong, the bulk of this (or at least more than half) will take place in the "real" world. I now must ask if you prefer I separate the Storybrook section into it's own story, another piece under a different title, or continue it here? **

**As I might've mentioned before, once the story reaches a certain point, I am going to either end it on "neutral" ground in terms of the fate of Storybrook as awhole, or wait for the TV series to end before completing the piece with a more legit ending. This isn't going to change. Just giving you a heads up. We're currently at a stand-still point. Where things go will be up to you. **

**Thank you for the feedback! Now...the review button is right...over...there! Good job! **


	10. X

**From what I read, you would prefer to see this as one long piece rather than two divided storys. The response has been so great I updated early! Thanks guy! Hope you enjoy this!**

**-XXX-**

_"For one so rich, Mr. Gold seems to lack a great deal," _I think, mechanically placing books in their proper location, filling the shelves at a constant pace. _"Like friends, for instance." _

I don't have much room to talk (er, think?), because it isn't as though I'm much of a social butterfly myself. My circle of friends seems to revolve around the library and the elderly, which my sister Jennifer points out, doesn't really count. Neither does Chris, the youngest of our three brothers. Our three _living _brothers. I swallow at the thought of Tom. My mind switches gears swiftly.

From where I kneel, tucked between the U-Ws and biographies, I could just make out the unmistakable shoes (Italian leather, hand-sewn with oh-so carefully tied laces), the pressed pant leg of designer editor slacks (charcoal with a faintly purple pinstripe), and of course, the rounded tip of a thin ebony cane. In the sunlight streaming through the elegant arched windows, one could just make out the subtle veins of bronze running with the grain of the fine wood.

_"He's certainly got it all, except—" _Friends. Family. Companionship. In such a small town, it is truly remarkable just how disliked the fellow is. It is, without a doubt, universal. I don't even think he has a pet to shower with affection. But one never knows—his home, rumored to be a grand manor house, is secluded in the forest that surrounds this town. I've lived here all my life, and I could not even point out the general direction of where it lies.

At the current moment, Mr. Gold stands patiently listening to Isabella as she animatedly describes the library's latest shipment. It is with a pang I see this kindness. My boss is undeniably lonely. Her husband has been disfigured as long as I've known her. He is the furthest thing from social as you can possibly be and still be married, a result of his wretched face. Isabella, a great lover of book and conversation, is often resigned to her home with him. Her job seems to be one of her few joys outside of her marriage.

As they converse, Mr. Gold turns his cane in his hands. It rests dead center between his feet. Rotation makes the grains glitter with sunlight. I blink, then turn back to my work. Only thirty more books left now.

By the time I've moved on to the biographies, he is gone.

Mr. Gold kindly funds a great deal of the library, though his visits are rare. Isabella speculates that he has an extensive collection in his own private library, and donates when he grows bored—which seems to be frequently, at least since I've joined the staff. Isabella remarked just the other day how wonderful it was that he was pouring funds. For one, it gave us more work in general, and two, as Isabella put it, his _"vigorous donations have given us your most able hands."_ In other words, without Gold's money, this job wouldn't even be possible. For some reason, this idea unsettles me. I prided myself on remaining relatively untouched by the pawnbroker, unlike most of Storybrook.

I move to adjust Chesterton's thick autobiography to insert Greta Garbo's memoirs. A pair of bright hazel eyes gaze at me through the gap. I jump, startled, uttering a low cry.

This happens often enough, but I am still surprised every time.

A low chuckle sounds. I curse under my breath, least a patron hear me. Mr. Gold rounds the corner.

"My apologies, my dear."

I'm still clutching my chest. Restraining a glare, I assure him, "Oh, no, sir. You just gave me a fright."

"I can see that. So sorry." He doesn't sound too regretful.

"It happens all the time. Were you looking for something?"

He bares his teeth, which are just slightly crooked and yellowed. "Just browsing, actually. Would you have any suggestions, Miss Espen?"

It is hard to believe he was merely perusing our shelves. I hold my tongue and put on my best customer-service smile, the closed-lip version I save only for the most irritating of patrons.

"Oh, of course." My fingers are already skimming call numbers. " _Mien Kampf _is a fascinating read. And, then, of course there is this—" I remove a slim red book with Napoleon Bonaparte's famous horse portrait on the cover. "—a total classic. Do you have any interest in Alexander the Great? Possibly Stalin? We have a couple of great selection on Russian leaders, both post-and-pre Cold War—"

"Ah, I was hoping for something a little lighter," He interrupts, amused.

Tapping my nails against the painted metal lip of the nearest shelf, I bite my lip, considering. "Have you tried Crime and Punishment?"

Mr. Gold visibly winces. "Light in tone as well as volume. What must you read of entertainment?"

My smile is fleeting "Anything and everything, sir. So, I take it Steinbeck is out?"

In the end, he checks out a large tome of botanical study and our slightly dog-eared edition of _Candid. _With a sage tip of his head, he makes his exit. Isabella approaches me as I watch his receding back.

"What did Mr. Gold want?"

I shrug, turning back to my shelving cart. "Just something on botany and a bit of light reading."

Isabella shakes her head. "You did a good job. Nobody really likes to deal with him, which we don't have to do all that often, thank God, but…"

"We need to." I finish.

"Exactly."

**-XXX-**

I close the library at six, thankful that our hours are so forgiving, and walk home. My apartment is just over three blocks from the library, making the use of my car unnecessary and foolish. When I arrive home, I check on Zipper, my lark. He pecks at the bars of his cage. I sigh.

Zipper is my latest charity case. By now, all of the locals know my way with birds. Zipper was brought to me by a tearful Mary Margret after he hit one of her windows. She begged me to give him a chance. Sucker that I am, I accepted the little fellow. Though his foot was broken, setting it hadn't been nearly as bad as the rehab. He's quite resentful. I look forward to the day when I can release him back to the forest. The tiny bird is not a happy camper.

I call out, but Chris doesn't respond. I assume that he's down at Granny's with Graham or Peter, so I settle for changing into a pair of worn sweats. While I start the kettle, I mull over Mr. Gold. I've rarely spoken to him in all my twenty-four years. I was a little surprised to find he knew my name, but then again, I shouldn't be. Nearly everyone knows my father. And my sisters, Drew and Jennifer, and my brothers, Rick, Chris, Gerry, and Tom. It shouldn't be so shocking, really. Truth be told, Mr. Gold knows everyone in this town.

He owns this building, but we've rarely had to deal with him. The place is kept in good order, and the rent is always paid on time. Honestly, he's been a damn good landlord—all the nasty incidents I've every connected to him have really just been rumors. But that didn't make them any less true.

"Hey, Oph, you have dinner ready yet?"

The door slams. My oh-so-darling brother has returned.

Chris is the best brother a girl could wish for. He's lax, thoroughly enjoys reality TV, and gets along with the few friends that I have. What more could I want? The only issues we ever have deal mainly with my "lack of direction." In other words, Chris thinks I don't have enough ambition. He thinks I need more stability. Like a boyfriend.

"Hell, no. Fix it yourself, you lazy bum."

He laughs, swoops to peck me on the check, and bustles to the kitchen. I can hear him rummaging around for a pan within seconds. It's all funny, because he's definitely the better cook between us. Secure with the idea that dinner would be delivered shortly, I settle into the armchair with a thick book and a steaming mug, ignoring the glares that the bird keeps shooting me from between the bars of his tiny prison.

**-XXX-**

**Wow, what a lovely response! Thank you, guys, I'm honored. I know I said 3 days, but I couldn't wait. Hope you've enjoyed it! Please review again, and remember if you're confused or have questions, don't hesitate. My perspective of Storybrook might be a little off/differ from yours. **


	11. XI

**I cannot tell you how difficult it was for me ****not ****to post yesterday. I had to really restrain myself. The response to chapter 10 was amazing, thank you so much guys! I hope you enjoy this just as much!**

**-XXX-**

A week later, I happen to catch sight of Mr. Gold again, returning his two books. He inclines his head briefly, then limps to the front desk. I push all thoughts of him aside to ascend the scuffed stone staircase to the second level. All week I'd had trouble getting him out of my mind, for whatever reason. It left me unsettled, in discomfort with some innate longing to recall…something.

Most of our reference books are housed on the second floor, along with many maps, and older, delicate manuscripts, among other things. This basically translates to a very limited amount of traffic on the second floor. Typically anyone I've ever caught up here has been lost.

Personally, I love second floor. It is quiet. And maps have always interested me. Then there are the rare books, many which are falling apart. It was only recently that Isabella warily agreed to let me set up book binding station in one of the upstairs offices, to repair the good number of texts that have been damaged with time and ill-use.

The space is really more of a closet with a window than an office, but it suits me fine. I'd managed to unearth a few of Dad's old tools at the old house. Others I bought at the hardware store on the square. Jennifer had even given me some framed prints from the Book of Kells to liven up the place. It is very homey, now, especially in the late afternoon, when the light comes is all golden and warm.

With duster in hand, I begin my bi-weekly ritual of cleaning the shelves. Confusingly, the upper floor attracts an extreme amount of dust, regardless of its lack of use. Isn't dust supposed to be 90 percent skin, or something like that? Either way, I know I've got a job to do. Though I really doubt anyone would notice if I were to leave off cleaning for a week or two.

I've just finished the reference section and have moved on to our foreign language area (which gets even fewer visitor than the maps, for as far as I know everyone in Storybrooke speaks nothing but plain English), when a tapping grabs my attention. Startled, I turn to see the town's sole pawnbroker at the very top of the stairs.

Horrified, I call out, "Mr. Gold, we have an elevator!"

"Nonsense, my dear." He says smiling. Still, one hand rests on his bad leg. My eyes linger before I scold him again.

"You could've simply given Isabella or myself a list of what you wanted. We'd have fetched it for you."

"Ah, but these walks keep me limber."

"Still, sir…"I drop my duster on a nearby table, taking one of the heavy wooden chairs in hand and dragging it across the room. It makes an unpleasant sound against the solid hardwood floor.

He graciously accepts the seat. Leaning his cane against one knee, the pawnbroker sighs. I step back, unsure of my next actions. Truthfully, I want to finish cleaning, but to leave him here without inquiring after his needs or health feels cold. So, I ask in my very best customer service voice, "Is there anything I can bring you, sir?"

"Scotch?" He inquires. I freeze, and he chuckles. "No, my dear, I'm fine."

That being said, I turn to fetch my duster.

"However..."

I'm glad my back is to him, else he might see the tinge of annoyance cross my face. "Yes?"

"I'm not up here for any books," He says, point-blank. "I was hoping that I might get the chance of bumping into you, Miss Espen."

Surprised, I place one hand on my hips, tilting my head. "Me?"

"Yes. It has come to my attention that you are something of an expert on old and rare texts. And that you are particularly gifted in the arts of bookbinding and repair," His eyes glimmer faintly. "Much as your father and brother were."

I'm tempted to snap at the mention of family. But I merely watch him, waiting for the offer. For there is going to be an offer.

Delicately, he says, "I've recently received a shipment of very old texts in very poor condition. Had your father been around, he would be the person I would go to first, but seeing as…ah, well. I could, of course, send them away to New York or London, but I would prefer to have them finished quickly and feel as though, perhaps, the most difference would be made if I were to spend my money locally."

My fingers are already yearning to caress the worn leather and skim the faded pages. He looks me straight in the eye, his own orbs half-lidded.

"You were trained under the very best. I can only assume you're inherited at least a fraction of your father's talent, if not all. Would you be interested?"

I hesitate. It isn't as though my workload here is anything too heavy, but to work with Mr. Gold…the mere thought causes me to shudder. Besides, I've only every held two proper jobs in my life: the library position, and waitressing at Granny's. I'm not sure I have time to take on a second job at this moment. Not to mention the fact that I am very out of practice with binding.

"Ah, I cannot yet say, sir. I'm a good binder, I must admit, but perhaps they are beyond my ability. I would need to see them first. I would loathe to promise you something I could not deliver."

He nods slowly. "Very wise. Well then, you shall have to look at them, shan't you? They're in my shop. I would ask that, if you were to take them up for repairs, that it be done in my shop."

Stunned, I blurt out, "Whatever for?"

"Security, Miss Espen," He says stiffly. "I am sorry, but they are very rare, very _expensive_ pieces. If the conditions don't suit you, believe me when I say I have no qualms about sending them away for binding."

"No, no, there fine. I simply prefer a more private atmosphere."

"I assure you, it shall just be you, me, and the books." He tells me, teeth flashing. "If you do take the job, and it is done to my satisfaction I may even have a number of volumes in my own private collection that could benefit your…attentions."

I swallow. "That would be wonderful, sir. I truly enjoy the work."

Satisfied, he sits back. "I thought as much. When would you be free to stop by?"

I glance at the huge rusted clock that dominates the outer wall. "A half hour? I have to finish this." I gesture to the duster.

"Very well. I shall wait."

Gritting my teeth, I nod, scoop up the duster, then work double-time. I can feel his amber eyes trailing me as I run the microfiber pad along the shelves, tables, and various cases. On edge, I do my best to avoid his gaze. Every time I happen to catch it those eyes are practically glowing. With another shudder, I complete the task of cleaning the last row, then return to the center aisle, where Mr. Gold sits.

**-XXX- **

The walk to his shop is terribly awkward. He doesn't attempt to say much, except to point out that the weather is exceptionally nice. I readily agree, thinking sadly of all the lost afternoons to come if I agree to take on this job.

To be honest, I don't need the money—the library gig pays fairly well, and with Chris as my roommate, rent isn't exactly a struggle. Yet I feel compelled to examine these _"rare, expensive" _books. Even if I don't take the job, just seeing these faded beauties will be enough.

"I think you'll accept my offer primarily on the sheer quality of these texts," Mr. Gold says, keys jiggling as he slips them into the lock of the door to his shop. I peer through the glass windows. It's been an age since I was inside the place. Judging from my initial view, not much has changed. More antiques than electronics take up the shop. There are the puppets, the ugly windmill, the rows and rows of rings and necklaces. Thick oils and watercolor paintings. A few odd, rusted contraptions. Tarnished silver sets. A Polish teapot. A velvet-covered foot stool. Gilded side tables, a set of draws. Louis XIV-style lamps. A bit of everything.

Once inside, Mr. Gold disappears into the back, returning with a collection of four books. He sets them upon the glass counter. Reverently, I lift each of them, turning them in my hands. The first is a very fine copy of _The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_, bound in ivory leather, with tiny rubies and crystals inset the cover, completed with gold leaf, extremely intricate. Its spine is cracked, and leaves of paper are loosened. I can also spot a few spaces where stones are missing. Next is a whimsical choice: a first-edition _Peter and Wendy, _more commonly known as _Peter Pan._ It is covered in green lien, with lettering and a slim border done in gold leaf. The pages have been damaged, with the end sheets completely water-stained. The back has a funny brown splotch on it. The edges and corners are worn, too, with frayed threads. Then there is a bright red copy of Han Christian Anderson's fairy stories, with lovely pen-and-ink illustrations and marbled end sheets. It is in the best condition so far, though the leather could certainly use a good cleaning.

The last book is a slim volume of Shakespeare. _Romeo and Juliet._ Bound in deep blue, it is not nearly as flashy as the fairy tales, but it holds a certain beauty. I stroke the cover. This one's cover is about to fall off, held by a few mere threads. It's already been repaired, but cheaply with nothing more than glue, not a single stitch.

Mr. Gold waits patiently for my verdict. I finally set the tomes down, folding my arms and resting them on the glass top of the counter.

"They can all be repaired," I say confidently. "It may take a while—especially for the _Rubaiyat. _There are stones missing, and I'll have to completely replace some of the leather."

He nods slowly, considering. "And you believe you can do it."

"Yes. I can do it. But…it's going to be expensive."

The pawnbroker shrugs. "Money is no object. The more I spend, the more they'll fetch. I already have some buyers lined up. What will you need?"

I give him a quick list, which includes tools, materials, stones, and a few chemicals to remove select stones. He lists them quickly on a small pad.

"There's a company my father used to use. They're very reliable. I can give you their website. If we order tomorrow, the shipment shall be in early next week. But the stones…." I touch one of the rube chips on the book of poems. "I don't have the slightest idea where we might find those."

"Don't fret over the gems, I know of a few places." He assures me. "And now, we must discuss the matter of price."

I'd already been considering this. "_Peter Pan_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ will be about $45 to $75. The others over $90."

"Would $500 cover it? Excluding the materials, naturally."

I gape. "Uh, yeah. More than cover it, actually."

"Between the time you spend on them, and your willingness to work here," He gestures to his shop. "I believe $500 is more than fair. You can even keep the tools. What am I to do with them?"

"If you're sure…." I drift off.

"I'm certain. I do hope we can work together in the future."

"As do I." I lie, looking back to the books. "Shall I come in tomorrow? I've got a few things at home that I can bring. The sooner I start, you know." _The sooner I can get away from you. _

Pleased, he agrees. "We can order the supplies."

"Yes." I make to leave. "Tomorrow, Mr. Gold."

"Till tomorrow, Miss Espen." He echoes.

What have I gotten myself into?

**-XXX-**

**Please review! If I get enough encouragement tonight, I may even be tempted to post again...yes, I am bribing you. **


	12. XII

**I see what you're doing, Griff. Hahah. But you're charming, so I'll take it. Here you go! Enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

I warily enter the shop the next afternoon at four. With me is a heavy canvas tote, which holds my tools; needles, a variety of thread, glue, my small amount of gold leaf. Mr. Gold looks up from polishing a tray of rings to greet me.

"Ah, Miss Espen. You are early, my dear."

"The library is slow today." I tell him. "And seeing as we're working with one another, you can call me Ophelia."

It may have been a trick of the light, but I think I see his eyes flash, just for instant. "As you wish."

I wait for a similar offer, but none is forthcoming. Holding back a sigh, I ask, "Where might I…uh…set up shop?"

Taking up his cane, the proprietor leads me behind the counter to a small, relatively bare room in the back. A few broken chairs sit in one corner, with a file cabinet. Peg board covers one wall, and on it hangs a few basic tools—hammer, screwdrivers, wrenches, etc. There is a small window on the furthest wall. A table is pushed against it, and a draft-style utilitarian lamp rests on its surface, looming. All four books sit dead center of the worn table.

"I do repairs here occasionally." He explains, twisting his cane in one hand. "But now it is yours to use freely. Anything you need, please."

I take a moment to slip out my laptop and set it up. Mr. Gold watches from the doorway. I get the vibe that he's not a techie by any means. After I pull up the supply website we go through my list. The total isn't something to be exuberant about, but he whips out his credit card without batting his eyes. Soon, the transaction is complete. Plenty of leather, thread, and lien has been purchased. He tells me before returning to the front of the shop that the stones, too, are on their way.

I spend the next two hours cleaning the leather of the fairy tale book. It is a long process, and I must be very careful of the lettering. When I leave for the evening, I'm just about half way through the cover.

**-XXX-**

Chris is reasonably appalled at my accepting the job for Mr. Gold. Even though it means $500, and potentially more, he voices objections, and loudly over dinner.

"I seriously cannot let you do this." He says, scooping out Asian meatballs of the pan that night. "You're not in your right mind. It's _Mr. Gold. _I mean, parent tell their kids he'll come out of their closets if they're not good."

"You did not just compare him to the Boogeyman."

"I just did. But seriously, Ophelia, what are you thinking? There's a reason most of the town hates him, and it is a pretty darn good one." His back is too me while he checks his wild rice, but his voice carries a heavy meaning nonetheless.

"I know, I know. But money is money. And God, Chris, if you saw those books you'd want to work for him too. I was practically drooling over them when he showed 'em to me."

"Oh, yeah, that's right." My brother murmurs. "He's trying to seduce my sister with books. Fantastic."

That thought hadn't occurred to me. I wrinkle my nose. "Ew. He's, like, forty or something."

"Psh. And you're, like, twenty-five. Just numbers. Doesn't matter when he's after your hot little body."

I toss a crumpled napkin at him, the nearest projectile-worthy item. It bounces off his shoulder pathetically.

"Don't say that, Chris. Besides, you're the one who wants me to get a boyfriend." I tease. "He's not that bad, really. I actually kinda like working there."

I have a load more space than at the library, and I am not hindered with emotions like at the old house, in my father's shop. Drew had left that part of the house untouched, a testament to our father and his craft. I was free to work there as I pleased, yet it felt very uncomfortable. I was always excepting Dad to wander in as I stitch up the spine of some encyclopedia too watch my progress. Only he never did. Never could.

My brother spins on his heels. The effect is considerably lessened seeing as he's holding a tray of Asian meatballs with mitted hands.

"If he so much as brushes a hair on your head, I will rip him to shreds, then stuff those shreds in a food processor." He growls.

"Whoa. Down boy. Enough with the whole big-brother act. It's just a job."

He murmurs a few more things under his breath. I choose to ignore them.

"Listen," I tell him as we divvy up the meatballs and rice. "I swear, it's just a job. I'm not going to let him…seduce me. With books But c'mon, Chris, this is Mr. Gold. We've known him since we were kids."

He just gives me a dark look. "Doesn't matter how long we've known him. He's an ass. Everyone knows it."

"And this brings more structure into my life. You're always going on about stability—this is another paycheck, another skill I'm using to our advantage. You wanted me to have direction. I'm taking it."

"Not this kind of direction." He says flatly. "I was hoping you'd work toward getting your masters, or maybe start dating a little more. Not work for some creepy old Scottish pawnbroker."

Well, when he put it that way….

Shaking my head, I leave Chris to his thoughts.

**-XXX-**

Three weeks later, the books are complete. I proudly display them to Mr. Gold. He examines them thoroughly, feeling all the covers and spines before pronouncing them to be "brilliant." I cannot help but beam as he lavishes me with praise. His gaze lingers on my face for a long time before slipping away, back to the books.

"They are masterpieces," He says. "Inside and out. You have truly honored their creators with your craft."

My face heats. "Thank you, sir. It was truly a pleasure."

As he writes out my check, Mr. Gold begins casually, "Now, the other business we discussed…."

"Your private collection?"

He inclines his head. A curtain of straight, caramel-coloured strands follow suit. "Yes. Are you interested?"

The words are said with care, as though he is holding them as paint-saturated brushes over a pure white canvas, attempting to keep a steady hand to prevent dripping paint.

I am thrilled with the idea, but cautious. "We would have to discuss terms, Mr. Gold, before I could even think of it."

"But of course. I do hope that you will consider."

I did as well. Over the last twenty-one days I've found that working with Mr. Gold isn't nearly half as terrible as I'd predicted. He's been gentlemanly, readily open to discuss any subject, and kind enough to allow me privacy while working. At first I found the shop's silence unbearable, even for the two short hours I spent there every night. But as time moved on, it became oddly comfortable. I could hear Mr. Gold shuffling papers, his pen scratching across paper, every time he shifted in his chair.

We part civilly. I agree to return in a few days so as to negotiate terms.

**-XXX-**

"Is this seat taken?"

Startled, I look up from my novel to see an impeccably dressed Mr. Gold standing before me. His cane rests at his side. Looking down upon me, he reaches up to adjust his purple tie, eyes never leaving mine. I nod silently. He takes a seat across from me, the vinyl of the booth squealing as he settles down.

"You appeared very caught up in that storybook. I am sorry to disturb your reading."

"Oh, no. It's fine. I probably need to focus anyhow. Got to eat, you know." A lukewarm bowl of soup I hadn't intended on finishing sit beside me, paired with one of Ruby's famous wheat rolls.

"Does your reading distract you from basic life necessities?" He asks, eyes twinkling.

"Not always. This just happens to be particularly enthralling."

It is then that Ruby appears, notepad in hand, to take Mr. Gold's order. He gets a cup of coffee and soup, then sits back to gaze at me over his fingertips. He's not the only one; I can feel the gaze of all the diner's patrons upon me, most distinctly Ruby and Graham. Ignoring the stares, I tear apart my roll, nibbling on a piece.

"And what is it that has so thoroughly caught your attention, my dear Ophelia?"

I flip the book over to reveal its cover.

_"'The Complete Jack the Ripper, A to Z,'"_ Mr. Gold reads aloud. His eyebrows rise. "Interesting. You have rather…morbid fascinations, do you not?"

"I simply wish to be informed on a variety of subjects. And this is a new addition to the library. I like to know the books, so when people ask I have a knowledgeable review of the content."

"That is probably wise."

"I like to think so."

We sit in awkward silence for several minutes. Ruby brings out the coffee and soup. Mr. Gold sips his coffee—which is black, no cream, no sugar, thankyouverymuch—and stares into his mug. I take this opportunity to examine him. Thin cheeks, a healthy, tan complexion. Not a single hair on his skull is out of place. He is perfectly clean-shaven. Overall, he takes very good care of himself. I have no doubt that if it were not for the limp and disposition, he'd be married, or through a string of beautiful wives. He's rich enough for it, and his general features are not wholly unattractive. Perhaps his face is a little took sharp, eyes too narrow, but for the most part he is well-put-together.

"Since you're already here," I begin. "Would you like to talk about the terms of repairing from your private collection? Unless you're off the clock and don't want to get into business."

"No, that is perfectly fine." He pauses. "I am unsure how many of my books are in need of repair, or how long this undertaking may be. I am willing to establish a monthly salary until it is done, excluding tools and supplies. You would work between three and five days. I would expect you to work in my house, as you did with the shop books. You will be provided with a room, supplies, anything you might need."

I am impressed. He's clearly considered this. "A salary would be amazing. But unless you plan on closing the shop early, I don't know if I can make those hours."

"What times would work best for you?"

I consider. "I suppose I might be able to work later…it's just that Chris and I usually eat dinner together…."

"Ah, your brother. I am sure he can spare you a few nights a week."

We eventually settle on later hours for three nights a week, five hundred dollars a month. I agree to check out his collection next Thursday. The meal is finished far more comfortably than it began, as Mr. Gold strikes upon the topic of birds. He'd heard of Mary Margret's survivor. So, I regaled him with tales of Zipper, who still loathes me, and some of my other charges. To my surprise, he takes a real interest, barely touching his soup and coffee as I speak. He even laughs in all the right places.

I leave Granny's feeling a lot better about my new part-time job. Getting along with Mr. Gold only makes it simpler. Now, if only I could get my siblings on board….

Their disgust wouldn't prevent my working; I'm an adult, free to make my own decision. Yet I have no doubt that their protests could hinder me well enough. Besides, it's always preferable to have family on your side, right?

**-XXX-**

**Go ahead, tell me I'm a saint! Up to chapter 22 now! I'm sort of lost until Sunday-I've reached the point where the show ended, and I'm scared to move forward. I loathe waiting, but it's for the best. *Sigh* I hope you've enjoyed this snippet. Please review, I could use 'em! **


	13. XIII

**-XXX-**

My neck is freezing. Having just finished as shower and stepping out into the cool morning air, I shiver. Perhaps I ought to have broken out the blower dryer, and risked further tardiness. But I'd never been late before, I and have no desire to discover what my new employer's reaction may be. I practically fly down the stairs, sail into my car, and whip out of the lot. The drive to Mr. Gold's estate isn't a short one.

Two weeks have already passed since our agreement. And this particular week, I was taken ill by the flu. It'd already gone through the library—Isabella had been down last week. Mr. Gold was kind enough to release me from working the last several days. Out of guilt (and, I must admit, lust after his lovely books), I'd offered to come in Saturday morning to work for a few hours. Truth be told, I hadn't expected him to agree. The shop wasn't always open on Saturday, but I figured he might, I dunno, want to take some time off. But apparently my presence in his home wouldn't disrupt the pawnbroker. He readily agreed, so here I am.

I tentatively creep my Volvo up the dirt drive that winds through the forest. It is very long and very scary. More than a mile long, one can be on edge the entire time. Until they see the gate. And then the house, which sits up on a hill, surrounded by a manicured lawn and lots of trees.

The gate is a huge thing, a tarnished green, with a sweeping sort of beauty. Leaves and vines of aged metal give it a very romantic sort of feeling. Set between two white pillars, it stands regally. Then there is the house.

Oh, what a grand thing. It's a manor house, made of the same white stone as the gate pillars. I don't know how it ended up in Storybrooke, it is too beautiful for our measly little town. The style is hard to place-in some areas, I see Victorian details. Others Tutor simplicity. And, in a certain light, it might have a Gothic air about it. Whatever it is, it is the most beautiful building I've seen outside of picture books. There are a few round spires, tall leaded windows, beautiful masonry. Truly, it could be a fairy tale palace.

Today the gate is open in anticipation, as it always it. I drive through, rounding the circle—did I mention the fountain in the center of the lawn, which is in the center of the gravel driveway, which has pure, white, small pieces of gravel?—to park in my usual spot. I get out hurriedly, jumping up the front steps, ready to collide with the door-

It glides open. Mr. Gold peers out, eyebrows up.

"You're very nearly late, my dear."

Even though it's Saturday, he's dressed as always in a pressed black suit, with a green shirt and golden tie. Today a tiny pin sits on the tie, diamond chip dead center. I take a moment to wonder if the man owns any form of casual wear. I mean, it's Saturday.

"Sorry, sir. I woke a little late."

He smiles. It doesn't quite reach is eyes. "Do not fret, my dear. I was merely growing concerned. You are very rarely late. I take it you're feeling better."

He lets me step indoors and begins leading me through the foyer (which is grander than even the mayor's), and the sitting room.

"Yes, thank you."

We've ended up in the kitchen. I'd not yet been in here. It's white-on-white, with stainless steel appliances. Classic, elegant, probably a huge pain to clean.

"Please, sit," He tells me, moving to the sink. "I was just about to make myself a cup. Would you care for one? If I remember correctly, you very much love tea."

"Oh, no, I should probably start working—"

He cuts me off. "Nonsense. It's still early. Sit, I am sure you could still use the rest. Isabella told me quite enough of your illness. It sounds dreadful."

I obey, taking at seat at the breakfast bar. When he mentions my flu, memories of nights spent hugging the white porcelain toilet and cool compresses swim to the surface of my mind. I grimace. Yes, it was certainly dreadful.

When the kettle screams, he pours us two mugs and sits beside me at the bar. His cane is left on the countertop, silver top glistening.

"Tell me, have you had anyone…comment upon our situation."

I swallow, then frown. "No, sir. I wasn't aware anyone knew. I mean, it's not anyone's business, is it."

"So, you have not discussed this with friends? Family?"

"I told my siblings," I confess. "And I assume Isabella knew. Aside from that? I don't have many friends here, sir."

He considers this, stirring his amber liquid as he watches me down mine. I desperately wish to go the library. While I am a little more comfortable around my employer, this situation is still awkward. Nervously, I move to tuck my hair over my shoulders. It's far longer than I would like, but lately I've been too busy to schedule an appointment.

What happens next surprises me. Mr. Gold reaches across to carefully brush a lock I'd missed behind my ear. His fingers-tips linger for several seconds before they drop back onto his lap. I sit frozen. My skin tingles from where his pianist-fingers touched. He appears not to notice.

"I suppose you are eager to begin. Go on, the door is unlocked. How long do you think you'll be?"

Stuttering, I murmur softly, "A couple of hours. I'll leave around one, if you do not mind."

He doesn't. I flee to the library, shutting the door behind me firmly and sinking into one of the black leather armchairs. What just happened?

**-XXX-**

Two hours pass. Over the last two weeks I've managed to sort through most of his extensive collection, putting books in various categories based on the level and type of damage they display. They rest on tables in neat little stacks. Before starting, I stood back to admire them. There are some real classics here. A few more obscure things, poetry, reference books, records, etc. But all are beautifully bound. They're simply in need of a little help.

Clapping my hands, I pick up one pile that requires new leather altogether and head to my office. It's a bare little room, much like my office in the town's library. The window is a bit bigger though, with a much better view that skims the tree tops. I can see the winding drive, the gardens. Mr. Gold has also outfitted the room with a decent counter, complete with a set of draws, and a good lamp. He's even had curtains installed around the window.

My Ipod makes the time pass quickly. I spend twenty minutes on the first book just peeling away the end sheets to find the seam of leather. Before I remove the delicate skin, I photograph the lettering. It will be replicated along with the artwork on the new cover.

While I work I think of my siblings. Jen and Drew haven't stopped by our flat in a while. Drew, as the technical eldest, inherited the house when Dad passed. They both live there, and keep it in good order. Though all of us were invited to stay, we made our way out one by one. I love my sisters, but they maintain something of tyrannical rule over the family.

And Ricky and Gerry…we see them a little more often. There shop isn't too far from our apartment. Chris has lunch with them occasionally. Really, the only time I see them is when Gerry stops by to check on my car. I'm notoriously bad about maintain things like the oil. Rick will roll his eyes, but Gerry is usually kind enough to go out of his way for me. That's the biggest difference between the twins.

I've always found it curious how we naturally paired off, the seven of us. The twins make sense, more than Jen and Drew, or Chris and I. I suppose being the youngest, me and Chris were kinda meant to be close. It makes me wonder where Tom might've fit in, if he were still alive. Tom was everybody's friend. He was close to all of us, cared about all of us. He was our leader, our big brother. I've always wondered how our lives might've been so different, had he not-

When Mr. Gold arrives at twelve-thirty, he waits in the doorway, watching me size a sheet of new leather. He coughs lightly, alerting me to his presence. I start.

"Ophelia, my dear, it is nearly one o'clock. Are you hungry?"

It takes me a moment to absorb his words. My eyes have locked onto his, and for a brief moment I drown in them.

"Ah. No," I manage. "Thank you."

Concerned he frowns. "My dear, you've just overcome a terrible illness. You need to keep up your strength."

"No, really Mr. Gold. I'm fine. I had a huge breakfast, and—"

"I insist."

That is how I find myself trailing after him down the marble spiral staircase, through the maze of hallways, and into the dining room. His maid, a plain woman named Molly is just setting the table as we enter. He thanks her, then invites me to sit.

"Tell me of your progress," He invites as Molly sets a pair of ham sandwiches before us.

"Ah…things are going well. Nothing too unusual. Most of them are in fine condition, with a few nicks and dents here and there. The ones who are the worst for wear have clearly been loved. I'm going to tackle those first, then work on the less damaged later."

After my report, he sits back. His sandwich is barely touched. I feel extremely awkward biting into mine. Doing my best to muffle the sound of my chewing, I stare at the center piece of the huge oak table, a brilliant bouquet of white roses. Mr. Gold seems distracted.

"Ophelia, do you enjoy your work at the library?"

Suspicious, I reply, "Yes, very much."

"It isn't stressful, or tiresome?"

"I can sometimes be a little jaded, I suppose. I'm not always the best with customer service and things of that nature. Still, I do like the job."

He eyes me. "Would you ever consider not working?"

I still myself, staring at my plate. One finger runs around the edge of my glass as I ask, pitch very high, "I shouldn't think so. I have rent to pay, and bills, and…stuff." I finish lamely. "It isn't a possibility."

"But if there was a way? If you could be taken care of?"

"Oh." I pause. "I don't think so. I'm not really a 'taken-care-of' sort of girl."

I raise my eyes to meet his amber orbs. They flash with something akin to amusement. Goody for him. This bothers me. It shouldn't, yet it does. He's my boss, it's to be expected. Still, the annoyance flashes through me. Why shouldn't I not want to be taken care of?

"Interesting," Is all he says before dismissing me back to my work.

**-XXX-**

**Great response, guys! I've just finished up chapter 22, started 23! Hope you're enjoying it. I've had a few questions in regards to plot. These are great, so don't forget if there is any confusion, do not hesitate to ask in your review. Because reviews are amazing. **


	14. XIV

**I use the opening passage of "The Cask of Amontillado," by the unsurpassed genius of American Gothic/Horror, Edgar Allen Poe. If you haven't read it—or been forced to read it by grumpy freshmen English instructors—find it and do so now. It's a lovely piece. **

**Also note that I will progressively be making changes to previous chapters after the airing of Desperate Souls-which was tonight, fyi-so as to stay reasonably in-line with the show. **

**Please enjoy. **

**-XXX-**

A month goes by. In that time, I've managed to cover and letter eight books, insert fresh endsheets on twelve, and process several stains. By my third week Mr. Gold presents me with two new tomes, recently ordered from New York. They're beauties, curiously waterstained. The warped pages are yellowed with age, but I assure him that I can restore them to a new life. Without having even requested it, my wages are increased by a hundred a month.

"This isn't necessary," I tell him helplessly as the check is pressed into my hand. "Five hundred is too much as it is already, sir."

He waves me off. "It is no matter, my dear. You easily earn it."

"No, no, please." I beg, pushing his money away. He'd written it with a hand-spun fountain pen of rosewood. The dark liquid ink smudged in my grip.

Regardless, he remains firms. "Just take care of my books, Ophelia."

The seriousness in his eyes brings me to shiver. For some reason, I'm under the impression it is no longer books we're speaking of, but rather something far more important.

Jennifer and Drew have sat me down several times since I've take up work under the Gold estate. They, like Chris, don't like my working there. Drew is most persistent. She doesn't understand why I feel the need to maintain two jobs. And if I really wished to follow Dad in a career of bookbinding, there are far better places than Storybrooke to set up shop. Jennifer is a little more soft-spoken, merely suggesting that I donate my time to the hospital, or some other good-will charity. It may not pay, but wouldn't it be just as fulfilling? I already spend my time around books for a living.

Ricky and Gerry have no concerns themselves. They're not on my side, necessarily, but it's not out of any hatred for Mr. Gold. They simply do not care. Which is what I prefer, anyhow.

Chris still fusses like an old crippled crow every evening as he makes dinner—well, on the rare nights I am home. My agreement with Mr. Gold leaves at most four nights. I tend to work more often than necessary, stopping by Mr. Gold's pawnshop after my shift at the library to see if he'll be in. The first time this occurred, he was surprised.

**-XXX-**

The bell rings as I step inside. Several people were milling around—tourists. Those were the only people who are ever found in the shop. The locals know better, or are frightened.

He is attending to a couple who appear interested in a tray of art-deco broaches. I recognize them as a set Ruby's granny once owned. When I spot him, I step back to wait beside the pair of creepy puppets. He glances my way, still talking to the couple before they make their purchase and leave the shop, happily hand in hand. I approach.

"Ophelia," Mr. Gold greets me, clearly surprised. "Can I help you? Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes." His concern is touching. I cross my arms, tugging the cuff hems. "I'm fine. I was wondering if maybe I could by come tonight. There's a Keats volume that I'm dying to put my hands on."

Surprised, he takes up his cane, eye twinkling. "Overtime, my dear?"

"You don't have to pay me for it. But if it's any trouble, sir, I can wait till tomorrow-"

"No, no, that is very well. I…hardly entertain, my dear Ophelia. You may come when you please. Is this going to be frequent, your overtime?"

I consider. "Perhaps. I don't want to be a bother."

"You are not a bother." He says firmly. "You are doing only what I ask of you with the greatest of enthusiasm. I could not be more pleased. Come whenever you wish. My house is open to you."

I leave the shop minutes later to hear once customer tell Mr. Gold, "Your wife is positively lovely, sir."

As I hurry pass the wide storefront windows, I feel my face heat. When I dare to peer back, I see amusement spread widely across his features. Mortified, I curse under my breath. Damn tourists. Gold catches my eyes and winks.

**-XXX-**

He catches me plugged into my Ipod one evening, biting my lip as I letter a linen edition of _The Wasteland_. I'd been at it four hours. It is nearly ten. He's surprised, and perhaps a little disgruntled.

"I thought you left."

I shake my head, fiddling with the white wheel of my MP3 player. "The way the metal tones are layered on here requires me to finish them tonight," I explain. "So…yeah."

For a moment, he watches me paint. "Are you ever bored by this work?"

"Sometimes," I admit, dipping my brush and wiping the excess colour. "It can grow monotonous."

"Does music help?"

"A little. When Dad and I worked together, we would read novels aloud to one another." The memory causes me to smile. We read some classics together. _Beowulf. The Da Vinci Code. The Grapes of Wrath. Catcher and the Rye. _

There is a long pause. Mr. Gold's eyes follow my brush's progress across the bright fabric. He speaks after a while, slowly. Being so late in the evening, his dialect stands out. I've come to the conclusion that weariness brings it forth.

"Would you care if I read to you?"

"Ah…." Unsure, I glance up from the book. "Really, sir? I'm sure you have much better business to attend to than entertain me."

"Probably." He agrees warmly. "But none would give me a greater pleasure."

So begins our new ritual. His dialect brings a beautiful new dimension to the tales he reads. Our first selection is a newer edition of _On Razor's Edge. _I'd never read it before, but Mr. Gold promises me that, while a little sad, it is delightful prose.

From there, we move on to _The Glass Blowers, King Lear, _and, at my request, _The Art of War. _When I finish restoring _The Wasteland,_ we start that and muse together on the provocative imagery and profound meaning behind the poetic verses.

Most surprisingly, I enjoy these sessions. He cannot always read, and on those occasions I feel oddly blank. But when he does, it is strangely peaceful. We don't converse much. When we do it is brief and nothing of consequence.

I don't tell Chris about these readings. The mere thought sends dread through my spine.

**-XXX-**

"_The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong..."_

His voice carries with it an age, time in tone. I am lost in his words more so than my work, sunken in my chair heavily and staring up at the ceiling. The sound of pages turning gives me a comfortable sort of feeling. It's one of the most delightful sounds in the world, as far as I am concerned. It consoles me the same way the scent of crayons, tobacco, and peppermint does for others, bringing me back to childhood, a simpler era of my life.

I'm left to wonder about Mr. Gold's childhood. Did he grow up in Scotland? Why did he come to America, and Maine, of all places? Has he ever been married? Questions pepper my mind. But they go unanswered, leaving me unsatisfied. I don't yet feel comfortable enough around the pawnbroker to go poking about his past. It is rarely mentioned, and probably with good reason.

"My dear?"

My daze is broken. "Hmmm?"

A concerned pair of amber orbs enter my field of vision. Mr. Gold looms over me. "You've stopped. Are you alright?"

I sit up, grasping the arms of the chair. My hands fly to my temple, massaging. "Ah, yes, yes. Sorry, Mr. Gold. I'm just a little weary."

"You may leave, if you wish." He says kindly. "You work so much as it is, one night off can do no harm."

"Oh, I couldn't do that."

"Is it the reading, then? I can stop."

"Please, don't." I plead.

Thoughtfully, he closes the Poe volume. "How about this—we move to the library to read properly? I'll have Molly scrounge us up some tea, and biscuits, if you like. Though, I ought to be watching my figure…."

Though cheesy, I cannot help but giggle. That, and the use of the word "_biscuits" _is simply charming.

Compelled by an unknown force, I agree easily. We move to the library, sitting beside one of his grand window. Moonlight filters in through the waved glass. Mr. Gold freezes, staring at the full, round moon. I follow his line of sight. The huge pearl gleams, nestled in an inky sheet of stars.

"It is lovely."

"Yes," He agrees faintly. "Very."

We stand in silence for a while, staring at the awesome orb. Then, he smiles abruptly. "Shall be begin again? '_The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat…'"_

**-XXX-**

**Updates are amazing, but reviews take the cake! What did you think of this week's episode? And what did you think of this chapter? Questions? **


	15. XV

**This chapter is for ****ber1719****, who reviewed a crapton yesterday! They are very inspiring, kind, lovely reviews, and they brightened my entire week. So thank you, very, very much! **

**And a second thanks to all my other followers and reviewers, even those who do not take the time to review.**

**-XXX-**

Isabella has been watching me all day, following me through every task. Her constant monitoring is both irritating and distracting. When Mrs. McClearly, an elderly lady who comes in frequently in search of cookbooks, leaves, happily bearing three new books on the culinary arts, I finally snap and confront her.

"Isabella," I begin as she pours herself a mug of coffee. We're standing in the back room, which is littered with file cabinets and various volumes that require repair or labels. "Is something wrong? You've been…well, edgy. And not in the Madonna-slash-Billy Idol kind of way."

She stirs in two packets of sugar before answering. "No, of course everything is fine."

Her smile spreads tightly across thin lips. I remain suspicious.

"Are you sure?" I press. "If something is out of sorts, I want to take care of it."

"Well, it's not exactly something you could fix," She murmurs, avoid my eyes.

Suddenly, I know what's the matter. Lately I'd received odd looks from people at Granny's, patrons of the library, and now, Isabella. With a pang, I ask gently, "Does this have anything to do with my work with Mr. Gold?"

I knew it would get out. We hadn't exactly worked to keep our arrangement a secret. Last week, however, I had come into the shop and ran into Graham. Though I wasn't there long, and spoke in low tones to my employer, it didn't matter. He'd spotted me. And the rumors began to fly.

Nobody likes Mr. Gold. And I am not exactly Storybrooke's darling myself. Without a doubt, I was receiving a little pity—along with some ill-will.

She finally looks up. "Yes," Isabella sighs. "It does. How can you? I mean, he's one of our biggest donors, and he's rich and all, but you're a smart girl. I used to envy you—you're one of the only people who has managed to stay out from under his thumb. Well, until now that is."

Her combination of scorn and concern is startling and touching.

"It isn't like that, Isabella. I'm not under anybody's thumb." I assure her. "I promise—we're just in a friendly arrangement. It's all business. Nothing—nothing like that."

Doubtful, she sets down her mug. "Even if it isn't, that doesn't mean it cannot become something more serious." She pleads. "Please be careful. Mr. Gold can be a very good man. But even the nicest of men can do regrettable things."

"He's a nice man. And it's a business arrangement, nothing more." I hug her. "Thank you. I promise I'll stay safe."

"Please do." Her voice drops. "Everyone is talking about it. Prove us wrong."

**-XXX-**

Waiting has never been an easy thing for me to do. Patience may be a virtue, but it isn't one I entirely value. I grow anxious and fidgety when forced to wait for long periods of time without distraction. Childish, perhaps, but it's me.

I'm sitting on the step of Mr. Gold's pawn, twiddling my thumbs. My shift at the library has finished for the day, and I was hoping to speak to Mr. Gold about working Sunday afternoon. But he's not here. Not here at all.

This is very odd. I have known him to nip down to Granny's for a slice of pie. So, Upon seeing the closed sign, I'd sat down to wait, figuring he'd be back in no time. Yet thirty minutes have passed and I'm growing impatient.

What bothers me even more than his tardiness is the cardboard that has been duc taped to the missing pane of glass from the front door of the shop. There's been a break-in. I wonder who could have the balls enough to go after old man Gold, but more importantly, I fear for old man Gold's health. Had he been in, when this happened?

"Ophelia."

I glance up sharply. Mr. Gold looms above me, eyes heavily shadowed. I blink twice. For a second I thought…his skin…but no. Scrambling to stand, I inquire after his absence.

"I had to stop by the hospital. Business." He says shortly.

"Oh."

I sense a strange mixture of emotion from him—pleasure, frustration, success, annoyance. Odd. His expression is blank. I follow him inside.

"Are you okay?" I ask as he limps to his seat behind the glass counter. "I saw the door. Did someone break into the shop? Are you hurt?"

His lips quirk. "Your concern is touching. No. I was seeing to an arrangement between myself and a young lady."

_Ashley. _Everyone knew of their adoption deal. I'd seen her at Granny's struggling to refill coffee. She's already naturally inclined toward clumsiness—pregnancy didn't help the inclinations in the least. Sean is a real jerk. Nearly everyone agrees. It is just as much his responsibility as hers. But that didn't prevent him from backing away from the plate just as it was his turn to bat. Every time I see him around town, fury blazed within me. He is an incurable daddy's boy. Ashley, bless her heart, deserves better.

"Ashley? Did she have her baby?"

"Yes. Two hours ago."

"Have the new parents already come for—"

"No, they have not." He sighs, sitting back. "Miss Ashley has decided to keep her child."

Startled, I frown. "I thought you had a deal?"

"We did. But she changed her mind. I got this—" He lifts back a curtain of brown hair to show me the scarlet nick on the side of his temple. The tanned flesh surrounding it has turned purple and yellow. "—around that same time."

I gape, rushing forward. "Mr. Gold, that's awful. Have you let anyone see it?"

"No one but yourself and Emma Swan." He says wryly.

The newcomer rumored to be Henry Mill's birth mother? Why would he show her? Confusion flares within me, tinged with a hint of jealous.

He doesn't explain further. I submit to my urge to examine the wound further, coming around the counter to stand before him. I hold up my hands.

"May I?"

Tentatively, he allows me to get a closer look at the cut. I am not satisfied with his choppy clean-up. Frowning heavily, I stretch the skin around it. He winces.

"It won't need stitches, but I think a decent bandage might do. Do you have a headache?"

"Bit."

I unsling my purse from around my shoulder, setting it on the counter to dig through the contents. I surface with a bottle of ibuprofen. "Two of these with water. Do you have a first aid kit?"

He nods, gesturing toward the back. I return with the kit and a glass of water, setting both before him. The pawnbroker swallows the pills as I set to work on the cut, disinfecting it, then applying an antibiotic cream. The silence is awkward, so I ask, "How did this happen? Did you fall?"

I'd never thought of him as frail, or accident-prone. On the contrary, even with his limp he always struck me as fairly graceful. "Clumsy" and Mr. Gold simply didn't go together.

"Not 'how,' 'who.'" He says heavily. "Ashley wanted to go back on our contract. Instead of coming to me about it, she instead decided to destroy the physical agreement itself. I caught her breaking in."

"Oh." I'm focused on bandaging his skull, but the words sink in with me nonetheless.

"I didn't even get a chance to discuss the matter with her. She resorted to lashing out. I lost consciousness, she fled town. Poor girl."

It amazed me that he still managed to pity the kid who bashed him in the head. He's really lucky she didn't cause any permanent damage. With this, he is likely to just have a small scar.

"Done," I say softly, turning to pack up the first aid kit.

Mr. Gold reaches up to feel his bandage. "Thank you, my dear."

"No problem. Have you had lunch yet?"

He smiles warmly. "I am famished. How did you know?"

**-XXX-**

"Why don't you read today, my dear?"

I glance up from my stitching. Mr. Gold stands in the threshold, leaning heavily on his cane. Today he wears a black suit with blue shirt and silver tie. I faintly realize that we match—I'm wearing a grey sweater and French blue button-down, and a knee-length black skirt.

"Me?"

"Yes," He peers at me, smiling lightly. "You were quite an orator, if I remember, during your school years. Can you not? It's only fair."

"I…."

So, we remove ourselves to the sitting room on the ground floor with a large volume of Shakespeare. After settling into the couch, I start with a series of sonnets. One-hundred-and-thirty is one I particularly love, reciting it with as much spirit as I can muster.

_ "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;_

_ Coral is far more red than her lips' red;_

_ If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_

_ If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head._

_ I have seen roses damasked, red and white,_

_ But no such roses see I in her cheeks…."_

Amused, Mr. Gold asks me, "Are you a romantic, Ophelia?"

I scoff. "Hardly. Love is overrated. I've yet to experience it, anyhow."

"You're young. Love ought to flourish with you, shouldn't it? If it isn't here yet, I assure you it shall come."

"Somehow I doubt it. All of my pretty notions of true love and that business died around the same time as NSYNC*."

"And yet, you are a fan of the greatest romantic of the age." His brows rise. "Mr. Shakespeare has the most optimistic set of ideals on the subject, my dear. Curious, that you should be named after one of his most tragic creations. "

"I do believe my namesake retained similar philosophies on the subject of love as I do." I tell him wryly. "Considering she lost hers so unfairly."

He agrees. "Which why you are a confusing creature. You love Shakespeare, yet you disagree so fiercely with his romantic notions."

"Shakespeare was a sexist prude."

We move along. I select another sonnet, punctuating the iambic pentameter rather than the tone.

_ "How like a winter hath my absence been _

_ From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! _

_ What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! _

_ What old December's bareness every where! _

_ And yet this time remov'd was summer's time;_

_ The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, _

_ Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, _

_ Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: _

_ Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me _

_ But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;_

_ For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, _

_ And, thou away, the very birds are mute: _

_ Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, _

_ That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near."_

"Number ninety-seven." He whispers, standing. Cane in hand, he circles the couch. Stalking me. _What? _The idea sits, unsettling. Where had that come from? I shake my head, continuing with another verse. Number thirty.

_When to the sessions of sweet silent thought_

_ I summon up remembrance of things past,_

_ I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,_

_ And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:_

_ Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,_

_ For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,_

_ And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,_

_ And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:_

_ Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,_

_ And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er_

_ The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,_

_ Which I new pay as if not paid before._

_ But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,_

_ All losses are restored and sorrows end._

"Beautiful," My employer murmurs. "Positively beautiful."

I do not speak, but rest. The powerful words tire me quickly. Three poems in, and I do not think I can go too much further. Shakespeare drains; I'd always forgotten. I shut the book softly, hugging it to my chest. Mr. Gold pauses beside me.

"Will you read no more?"

"I am tired." I whisper.

His head tilts downs. Our foreheads brush. "Let me help you, then." He whispers back. I close my eyes—

**-XXX-**

**Because the response has been so good, and because today I my birthday, expect a early-morning update tomorrow! No promises, but I'll do my very best! **


	16. XVI

**Ber1719, ****here's your wish!**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, please review!**

**-XXX-**

His mouth is hot on mine. For a mere instant I am still before shuddering into the kiss. The book, which I had been holding to my chest, slips to the floor, hitting the carpet with a definite _"thud."_ Arms I once thought to be frail tighten around me, the long fingers maintaining a formidable vice grip. Inhibitions are pushed aside as a very persistent tongue battles mine for domination. I feel myself growing warm. Pressure and anticipation build in me. Unconsciously, I stretch against my employer, gasping when his body overcomes mine. He's on the couch, inhaling my hair, skin, my very being. The grip on me releases. Nimble hands migrate on my flesh. Fingers skim the top of my waist band, slipping beneath my shirt, and oh—

My mind snaps back. I jerk away fiercely, coiling my limbs into myself. Staggering without support, Mr. Gold reaches out for the nearest wall. He pushes back the locks of shoulder-length caramel-coloured hair from his cheeks, staring. Minutes edge by in dead silence.

"I'm sorry," I finally say (though it is not I who should be apologizing). Following his suit, I stand, edging against the opposite door. Closer and closer to the door.

He isn't about to let me go. "Ophelia, stay where you are."

I freeze, then curse myself for it. Damn my innate willingness to please. I knew it would always bring me trouble.

Mr. Gold lowers himself to the couch which we'd both recently vacated. I wince at the thought, recalling what hot business had been occurring there just moments before. And how far it might've potentially gone. My face heats. I'm beginning to feel ill. Mr. Gold isn't looking at me. I sink against the wall. It supports me only physically.

"Listen," I begin. "I…we can forget this entire thing. I won't tell anyone, I swear. It was just a…heat-of-the-moment kind of mistake. We can just move on—business as usual."

When he doesn't respond, I barrel on desperately. "If you'd like to dismiss me, I totally understand. No hard feelings—"

"Oh, do shut up." He cuts across. "Silly girl. I could no more fire you than remove my own foot. And that was _not _any accident. Now stop apologizing and sit."

I don't move an inch until he swings his face 'round to stare at me pensively. Only then do I creep forward to sit on the edge of the cushion of one of the winged armchairs. Incidentally, it's the one that sits furthest from my employer.

He waits. When I've finally settled on staring at the floor, he sighs loudly. "Ophelia. I have a proposition for you."

Tentatively, I look up. His expression is unreadable. I loathe unreadable things. Comprehension is something I like relying on.

"If you want to dismiss me, that's fine." I whisper. "But please—"

He interrupts me by snorting. "By 'proposition' I do not mean to thinly veil 'dismissal,' and as I told you before I am not set to do so anytime soon. It is a simple matter. I want companionship."

My jaw sinks. It isn't exactly an attractive expression, but at this point, I think I could use all the help I could get to display my more ugly aspects.

Delicately, my employer lifts his cane from the edge of the coffee table, where I assume he'd placed it in the midst of our-our-

Oh. Oh dear. It had not been a mistake.

When I do not speak, Mr. Gold continues, spinning his cane as he speaks. "It will not require much from you, little more than what you are providing now. And the benefits you will receive will outweigh the 'costs.'"

"I…don't think I can do what you're suggesting." I say softly. My eyes are trained on his rotating can, locked on the slender piece of black wood. He attempts to catch my gaze, but I let it slide past me.

"Refusing me would put quite a few things at stake. Your job, for instance, at the library."

"I can always get a new one."

"Oh, I doubt it. After all, the only reason you possess that position in the first place is because I requested it be created. Should you reject my offer, I am prepared to stop all donation in my name, and encourage others to do so as well. My powers of persuasion are…formidable. More jobs than your own may disappear in a matter of weeks. Then there is the matter of your father's reputation…and your inheritance."

My heart stops. "What do you mean?"

"A few years ago, I asked you father to examine a few texts for me, appraise them, if you will. He took them to New York so as to collaborate with others in his trade."

I remembered that trip. He'd been so excited, perhaps for the first time since Tom died. The night before he left we'd sat down to a real, proper family dinner, something we had not done in ages. Our last proper family dinner. Less than a month later, Dad caught a terrible strain of viral meningitis.

"Imagine my surprise when I discover all three of the volumes I had entrusted in your father's care had not only been appraised but sold as well, and that the resulting money had disappeared." He lets the words sit. The air suddenly feels very, very heavy. "The paper trail cannot be too hard to find, Ophelia."

"You couldn't prove it. For all I know, you _gave_ him those books."

"And why would I do that? Three texts, worth a small fortune, to a simple bookbinder for no reason, no trade?"

I finally stare him straight in the eye. "I don't claim to know your intentions. Only that you had them."

"Are you suggesting I planned this? I planned for your father to 'rip me off?'"

His tone tells me yes, that is exactly what he had done. But how? And why? Did he know Dad was sick? What was the motivation?

Our inheritance had been far more than we had anticipated. But we'd shrugged to ourselves, assuming it to be a result of the passing of a few of Mom's more obscure relatives. If it is indeed Mr. Gold's money, even just partially, I realize with dread that a lot of it is gone. Jen and Drew had likely used their portion on house payments—they'd inherited the old place, after all. Gerry and Ricky obviously used theirs on setting up their flourishing auto shop. Chris had either invested his, or left it sitting in savings, as I had. And if I lost my job, that money would be our parachute. Unless Mr. Gold filed a suit against my family.

In one blow, Mr. Gold could dispose of my career, tarnish my reputation and my father's legacy, sue my siblings, destroy the town's single library, and sorely affect Storybrooke's economy. In other words, effectively ruin my life in every way possible.

"Think carefully on it, my dear," He says in a low voice. "I am certain you will find the best answer if you muse on the cause-and-effect of your actions."

I shake my head. "All of this for sex? You are potentially going to destroy the lives of dozens of people just to sleep with me?"

What my employer does next both disgusts and confuses me; he throws his head back, bursting out in laughter. I sit, arms crossed, fuming. He stops eventually, to reach forward, cupping my face fondly.

"Oh, you lovely creature. This isn't the Dark Ages. I merely request companionship."

"That—" I spit, gesturing to the couch where currently sits. "Was not _companionship._"

"Perhaps not," He admits. "I had hopes you might accept…that perhaps my feelings on that matter were shared. I can see now it will take time before you will be convinced."

"I could never—"

"Ah," Mr. Gold says, taping the tip of my nose. "Never say never, pet. We're birds of a feather, truly. You see, my sweet Ophelia, you understand, just as I do, that this word is comprised of deals. Everything has its price—Comfort. Happiness. Success. Sex…and Love."

"Not all love." I interject.

"All love," He disagrees smoothly. "That between siblings or friends isn't nearly as apparent. But you make sacrifice, do you not? You give things up, push aside feelings, to retain comfort. Even love has its costs."

"Even yours?"

His smile is faint. "I'm not offering you love, sweet."

"Then what feelings do you speak of, sir?" I ask, hugging my arms more tightly 'round myself.

"Regard. Respect. Admiration. Fondness. Lust." He says softly, watching closely to gage my reaction. I do not even blink.

"Four out of five," I quip. "Not too bad."

Mr. Gold sighs. Sinking back into the couch, he steeples his fingers and stares at me over them. I gaze back blankly. Moments passes in this manner before my employer leans forward.

"So, what shall it be, my dear?"

"Submit to your deranged, immoral wishes, or let you ruin the town's economy, my family's reputation, and lose my family's inheritance?" I laugh, tonelessly. This is all bravado. Inside, I am quivering like a leaf. Looking into his amber eyes, I can see that he knows this just as well as I do, but has kindly decided to let me put up the front. "Choices, choices."

The pawnbroker shrugs. "It is not I who will commit those acts. It will be you who sets them into motion." He raises his voice. "I believe the only question now is would you prefer to answer now, or shall I give you a day or so to think it over."

A drawn-out silence is laid out before us. I look to the walls, the windows, the ceiling, anything for guidance. Finally—

"Give me a day."

The answer seems to disappoint him. But he does not comment, rather, he simply says, "Then I will see you here, tomorrow, at five o'clock. If you are not here…I will assume you've accepted your resignation at the library." He lets the words hang before adding: "I won't make this offer more than once, Ophelia. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

With that, I am dismissed.

**-XXX-**

**Yeah. He's being a bit of a d-bag at this point. Little bit. Questions? Just review! **


	17. XVII

**-XXX-**

I struggle to find sleep that night. It is to be expected. In the morning, I rise, shower, and take toast with Chris. He senses my heavy mind, and makes me hot coco, with real milk and whip cream. Concern is evident on his features. When he attempts to coax me to speak, I brush him off with a smile. We eat in companionable quiet, Zipper's occasional squeak being the only thing to break the mood.

It's an off day for me, but Chris still has to work. I hug him before he slips on his coat, whispering, "You're the best big brother a girl could ask for."

He grins widely at this. "And you're the worst baby sister."

"I'm your only little sister."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're the worst." He kisses me on the cheek, shrugs into his coat, and then he is gone. I can hear a faint whistled melody echoing down the halls of the apartment building in his wake.

I cannot justify lazing about the flat all day, so at noon I change into a pair of jeans and a simple white blouse, pulling a cropped corduroy jacket over it. Though I am technically off, I could stop by the library for a while. The idea doesn't appeal to me. I instead settle from a long walk in the forest. There are a good many walking—that's walking, _not_ hiking—trails open to public use. Yes, the thought a walk sounds positively refreshing. I need to clear my mind.

I dig my lace-up boots out from the back of my closet, then scour the apartment for my walking stick, a long, slender stick of pine Marco turned himself. When I find it, I snag my keys from the miniature hooks by the door, pocket my cell, and then exit the apartment.

**-XXX-**

Fresh air breeds thought. I've already made up my mind on Mr. Gold's life-altering offer. Now I simply need to come to terms with my decision.

My decision had been made as soon as the terms and consequences were outlined. Even though he assured me sex wasn't to figure into the deal, I'm betting otherwise. I refuse to be naïve. The man has enough hanging over my head, it is difficult to believe that isn't on his mind, at least a little. I may not be especially pretty, but I'm young. Prostitutes don't frequent our town, and he has never had any sort of relationship as far as I know. Sex is a definite maybe.

How foolish could I have been to think, even for a second, that we were—we were-

_"Friends?"_

Anger surges through me. I whack a bundle of fern leaves that block my path with my walking sick, feeling a great deal of satisfaction when they do not rise. No! Not friends! Never friends...

"He's a fiend." I say aloud, staring down the damp trunk of a might oak. "And a coward. Blackmail is cowardly."

_"For a coward, he is certainly going to great length to have you." _The snide little voice remarks.

How could a town be so cursed as to possess both Regina Mills and Mr. Gold. "Mr. Gold." What? Is he too good for a proper first name? I sneer to myself. In over twenty-five years of life here, I had never heard anyone speak anything but the pawnbroker's surname. And even then, only in hushed tones, as though voicing the name evoked the beast. Like he would descend upon us at any moment. A veritable Lord Voldemort.

Looking back, I see now that their petty fears are perhaps rational.

Sunlight is scattered by bright green leaves. I've faltered in walking. Now I rest, nestled among the bushes and ferns. Oh, how tired I am…only a few more hours and my answer is due….

**-XXX-**

_"Will you sing?"_

_ I shake my head. _

_ "Read then?"_

_ No again. He's propped up on his elbows, grinning playfully. Happiness, I can see, can make even his unsettling features appear handsome. His pebbled skin has brightness and buoyancy. I watch his eyes sparkle under the moonlight, curiously wide pupils glimmer brightly. _

_ "What do you want to do then, Ophelia?"_

_ I rest on my knees, tucking long skirts beneath me. "I'm sure you can think of a few things, my lord."_

_ "I am certain I can, too. But what would you prefer we do on this fine evening?"_

_ A smile stretches my lips. I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his. The green-ish skin is rough. But not unpleasant._

_ "Kiss me?"_

_ "With infinite pleasure." _

**-XXX-**

I blink. The sun's light has altered. Pulling out my cell, I see that it is nearly four in the afternoon. I stumble to my feet, using a nearby trunk of a fallen birch to aid me in standing. I take several minutes to gather my bearing. Time has passed so quickly. I must have fallen asleep. What a peculiar dream…men with green skin?

Shaking my head, I return to the path. My answer is due soon. With a sigh, I run my fingers through mussy locks, knowing there is little to be done to improve their nature. Besides, five o'clock will be upon me in no time.

**-XXX-**

"You're late." The voice is decidedly cold. I wince. He hadn't even bothered on greeting me. Molly has shown me in, a first.

I was lead to his private study. It is a charming room—dusky green, lower portions paneled in a brunette wood, built-in book shelves, well-appointed set of furniture. The windows are long and narrow, framed with sheer white curtains overlaid with deep green velvet.

My employer sits with his back to me. I can just make out the top of his head over the rounded top of the chair.

"My apologies."

There is a pause. "Your tardiness left me fearfully. I feel unsure of your response to my most generous offer."

"I am here."

"So you are." His head shifts, inclining. The Scottish dialect thickens in that oh-so short sentence. He sounds…tricky.

"If you will excuse me, sir." I make to rise, but he is not about to have that.

"Stay put, Ophelia. We are far from finished."

Biting my lip, I sink back into the seat. Mr. Gold turns. His face is impassive. Considering he's just "won," I would have expected to see more malicious joy, or something a little more passionate. But no, his feature are…well, blank. This sheer lack of expression makes me even more nervous than any smirk or leer. Dully, I stare.

But it is when he comes out from behind the desk to cup my face that my nerves crackle with energy.

"There are rules," He begins softly. The Scottish tones blur. "You obviously cannot speak of this to anyone. I demand discretion, for now. You're to come here every day, six o'clock, unless I direct you otherwise. Tell your brother whatever you wish—-just keep him away. You are not to see anyone romantically. You may not spend inappropriate amounts of time alone with any men, regardless of circumstances between you."

I raise my brows. "Not even my brothers?"

His lips curl. "Excluding family." He pauses before continuing. "There will be nights I will require you to stay here. You needn't worry, I have a room made up to suit your tastes, though you will want to bring a supply of clothing. I will ask that you continue to come by the shop regularly."

His manner switches abruptly. Gently, Mr. Gold asks, "Is this understood?"

"Yes. I understand."

"And you agree?"

"I am here."

That is all he needs to hear.

**-XXX-**

My first night is difficult. Chris cannot understand why I need to jog so soon after dinner (which I barely touched).

"You just ate. And what's with this sudden interest in exercising anyways?" He stands in the threshold of my bedroom while I lace up my tennis shoes. "You hate running."

"I just want to be healthy. Spending all day in that library, it gets dull. I thought this might be a good change."

He remains suspicious. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

I'm surprised—he's almost hit the nail on the head. _Close, but no cigar._ Jumping to conclusions so quickly, too, that's weird. Can't a girl just go out for a jog?

"Please!" I scoff. "Like there is anyone worth dating in this scrummy town."

Offended, my brother recoils dramatically. "Excuse me, I can think of three young gentlemen who any lady would be positively _thrilled_ to catch, Miss Espen."

I snort. "Okay, my brothers do not count. Incest is not typically a socially acceptable thing. Besides, even if we weren't related, I have a distinct feeling that you're not my type. Not with that haircut, honey."

Chris runs a hand through his mop. Perhaps that was a little harsh? I stand.

"It's no big, Chrissy. I just want to get into shape."

He lets me pass. "Fine. What time do think you're going to be home?"

I scowl. "What are you, my nanny? I'll get home when I get home. Don't stay up."

He gapes openly. "How long can it take you to _jog?_ Ophelia, it's already six-thirty."

"Don't wait up," I advise, sailing out the door. "I might drop by Granny's for a cuppa."

And so I leave my brother, jaw unhinged, completely and utterly confused. If this is how it's going to be every night, I need to come up with a much better excuse. I'd encourage the boyfriend idea, except then Chris would want to meet him. And I cannot just produce an imaginary person—nor can I ask Mr. Gold play along. I'll have to brainstorm. Later.

**-XXX-**

Molly answers the door. She doesn't look the least bit surprised. For once, I'm not left to my own devices—the housekeeper doesn't give me the chance to scurry away to my office, but blandly informs me that Mr. Gold is waiting in the dining room. I follow her through the narrow carpeted hallways, avoiding the eyes of the various portraits that line the walls, even the numerous mirrors.

My employer sits at the table, hands wrapped around a crystal cup of what I assume to be Scotch. I wonder if a respectable adoration for the expensive whisky is breed in the nationality, or if it is just a cultural thing. A decanter rests on the tabletop, its fine facets sparkling. I am seated. Molly waits against the wall.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

He glances at Molly. "One setting, then. Bring Miss Espen a glass of Chardonnay."

She nods. Mr. Gold sits back, taking his Scotch with him. He eyes the golden liquid. "You're dressed rather casually."

"Chris thinks I am jogging." I tell him. "I couldn't very well leave in a daysuit."

"Fair point." He smirks. Legitimately smirks. "You couldn't come up with anything better?"

"Not really."

"That won't do. Especially if you're ever planning on staying the night."

Coolly, I cross my arms. "Forgive me, sir, but I am not planning anything. This is your party. If you expect me to…follow through, I need some sort of a cover."

He raises his brows. "Come now, you're a resourceful girl."

The words echo through my head. _"Resourceful girl…good intuition…resourceful…you're a bright girl…"_ Dizziness courses through me. I clutch my head, using my elbows as support as I hunch over the table. Oh, God. I haven't even had any booze yet. What is happening?

"Ophelia?"

Mr. Gold has risen to stand over me. Concern furrows his brow. I peek up, shivering. He moves to touch my cheek. Flinching when his skin makes contact with mine, he recoils the long fingers. Somehow those manicured fingers felt rough…? I shiver again, rubbing my forehead. Apparently deciding that my feeble protests are not a true threat, my employer's fingers find my temple, massaging gently. A moan escapes me.

His voice is sharp. "Ophelia, what plagues you?"

"I don't know," I say, voice muffled. "My head-just hurts."

I sink further into my seat. Mr. Gold calls out to the kitchen, telling Molly to come quickly. Everything is a blur. The housekeeper helping my employer lift me out of the chair. I feel myself being moved. Then laid down. My head burns. Oh….

Mr. Gold's face appears in my blurred line of vision. Something akin to fear blazes across his features. I feel his hands on my face and collarbone, more gentle that I could have ever predicted. Cool fabric is being pulled around me. Am I in a bed?

"Typical, the first night into our agreement, you would fall ill," He grumbles under his breath.

"I am not sick," I protest feebly, attempting to push his hands away. However, the blankets are wrapped tightly around me, restraining my hands. He laughs softly.

"Rest, silly girl."

"No," I murmur, wiggling against him. "I have to go home. Chris will…Chris will…wonder. I can't…."

"You will stay here." My employer says firmly. "I will call your brother, say we found you in the forest. You've clearly collapsed from your run. We'll keep you here until the fever breaks."

I scowl. He comically scowls back, showing me the lack of effect my hate has on him.

"Now sleep."

I mean to argue, but I'm already drifting off.

**-XXX-**

**Aren't I kind? I replied to the cliffie I left you this morning! With at another hanger...:)**

**Amazing reviews, guys! I plan on responding to many of them. Thank you for the birthday wishes! I am so happy to see that you've enjoyed this so far. I'm at about 25 now! But I can't write more until Sunday…*sigh***

**Please review!**


	18. XVIII

**-XXX-**

When I wake the next morning I am very confused, very sore, and very ready to kick someone's ass. Preferably my employer's. I had felt perfectly fine before coming here. Throwing back the heavy layer of cover, I tumble out of the giant four-poster. To my complete horror, my running sweats have been replaced with a very modest white cotton night gown. Frustration rises in my throat.

Gaze sweeping the room, I see that my clothes have been taken. I open the tall wardrobe that dominates one wall of the room, finding it empty. The same goes for the chest of draws. The only thing I can fine that remotely resembles clothing is the fluffy bathrobe that hangs on a hook in the adjoining bathroom. I ignore it. Left with nothing else to do, I storm out of the room.

Once on the ground floor, I follow the voices coming from the parlor. I dearly hope Mr. Gold is meeting with some business partner or big-shot. It would just serve him so well. Before I can even touch the door handle, however, I am caught. Molly's voice drifts down the hall, mirroring the exact level of horror I'd felt upon waking up in this damn manor.

"Miss Espen! You should be in bed, miss!"

The housekeeper flies forward to prevent me from entering. I push forward, flinging the door open without a second thought. Molly cries after me, reaching for my arms.

Mr. Gold sits comfortably in one of his winged armchairs, precious teacup held delicately in his left hand. The cane rests against the side of the chair. Across from him sits my treacherous elder brother. Chris.

Unlike Mr. Gold, Chris has a simple glass of orange juice. My brother hates coffee, can't stand tea, and is very picky about his water. So, juice it is. He looks oddly comfortable amidst the pricey leather furniture and glass lamps. The room is tasteful—clearly owned by a well-off person. And Chris, wearing scuffed Nikes and a black Guinness t-shirt, obviously does not blend. I blink several times, absorbing the scene. Chris doesn't even appear miffed, not like I would if my little sister was abducted by a crippled, rich madman.

"Ophelia," Mr. Gold says causally. "How good of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty. How are you feeling?"

Just like that. Chris sips his juice, glancing up.

"Yo, you gonna put legit clothes on?" He asks.

Unrestrained, I slug him in the shoulder. The juice sloshes in his glass, splattering across the coffee table and couch. Mr. Gold and Molly exchange looks. The housekeeper resigns herself to leave the room, most likely in search of paper towels. Then Mr. Gold settle back to watch Chris and I hash it out in the middle of his sitting room. Amusement is glistens in his eyes. For the moment, I ignore my employer.

"You. Stupid. Oaf." I say, punctuating each word with a solid blow. Chris ducks, howling when I get him in the kidneys. "You. _Stupid. Stupid_. Ass."

He catches my hands in his. "What are you doing? I'm here to take you home!"

"Oh, right, after you get breakfast. You suck! You don't stick around to have _juice _with the _kidnapper. _You burst through the door and carry me out on your goddamn back!"

"Language, Ophelia." Mr. Gold admonishes from his seat.

"He didn't kidnap you, Ophie." Chris defends. The name stops me short briefly-it was something he always called me, as a kid, when I was merciless in my use of "Chrissy." It was endearing. Stupid. Perfect. And heartbreaking to hear, because that meant-

The pawnbroken inclines his head. "Thank you."

Chris nods. "Right. He told me about your deal. And you didn't have to lie."

My sentimentality vanishes. I round on Mr. Gold. "You told him? You expressly forbid me from it! And now, you just let him waltz in, telling him everything?"

"You were ill. It was necessary. Besides, you said you needed a cover. I'm giving you an out."

I sink on to the couch beside my brother. Chris winces, anticipating a punch. I leave him be. "So, what? My brother knows I'm now being prostituted out for the sake of the family. Great. Lovely."

"Not prostituted," He protests gently. "I've never asked that of you."

"You may as well." I lower my head. "You have me in a corner, and you know it."

"Be reasonable."

"Oh, like you?"

Chris pipes up. "There are worse things, Ophie. He's at least being honorable."

"Honorable? He is blackmailing me for _companionship._ I'm not allowed to date, my job is on the line, Dad's reputation is being threatened. There is no honor in this arrangement. And don't you dare—this was all on my shoulders. No yours."

There is a long, drawn-out silence. The two males stare at me after this outburst. It's refreshing, this silence. Molly creeps in to clean up the juice, bringing another level of awkwardness to the scene. She backs out again, murmuring under her breath that she'd bring a new pot for tea. Then we go back to staring.

"Ophelia," Chris begins. "You know he—he does mean well. Mr. Gold, I mean."

Who else could he mean?

My brother continues. "I am not going to tell you what to do, but think of what is best for—for us. And I honestly think, after talking to him about this, he really can only help us. We can keep the money. And would it really suck so much to be girlfriend to the richest guy in town?"

"Live-in mistress and girlfriend are now interchangable words, eh?" I ask, sarcasm laced in every vowel."So, what? Is this you giving us your blessing?"

Chris and Mr. Gold exchange a glance.

"Well, yeah."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I thought I just heard you say 'yes.' But you couldn't have done that, considering you're my _brother _who is supposed to _protect me_ from shitty situations like this."

"I did say yes." Chris says firmly. "You're a big girl, Ophie. You know the consequences. I'm okay with it, seeing as Mr. Gold has good intentions."

It's then that I realize Chris is not going to be on my side. Whatever was said between the men, Chris has been fully convinced that this arrangement is the best thing for me, for us. He genuinely believes what Mr. Gold has created will be good for me. Stability—what he's always pushed me toward. A structured, stable lifestyle. Something to feel safe about. Happy.

Shaking my head, I stand and walk, dazed, from the room. Mr. Gold follows. I hear him quietly tell Chris to stay put. He trails me up the stairs, down the hall, the sound of his cane echoing the entire time, and waits as I fall into bed. Once there, he pulls the covers up around me, smoothing the creases. He runs the pad of one thumb across my right cheek. I stare up at the grey ceiling blankly.

"Is there no part of my life you're not set out to ruin?" I ask dully.

"I am not trying to hurt you, dove."

"Could've fooled me." I murmur. "Between my job and my family, it certainly appears that way."

He is quiet. "I will tell your brother to leave. You're still sick, my dear."

"I want to go home."

"You are home."

I say it again, louder. "I want to go home. The place I pay rent on, where my shoes are in the closet and I don't have to walk five miles to find a bathroom."

"You're not paying rent anymore." He tells me with a sigh. "Part of our bargain."

I sit up abruptly. "Leave me alone." I'm sickened to feel wetness on my cheeks. Tears. My headaches again, and I'm feeling so dizzy. I close my eyes tightly, mentally begging with my mind to _stop. _In a voice as damp as my face, I cry. "Leave me alone. For God's sake, just—just go!"

And to my surprise, he does, limping away from the bed. I don't open my eyes until the tapping of his ebony cane is faint. Exhausted, though it's barely past ten, I fall back against the cushions.

**-XXX-**

When I dream, I find myself in a forest. I'm wearing a heavy, medieval-style sort of dress, with a lace-up vest, boots, and a full skirt. The woods are dark—it's night. A misty sort of light swirls around, coming from an ebbing moon. No nights sounds can heard. I turn in the clearing, my eyes straining to adjust. There is a _"snap." _A twig broken underfoot. Whipping around, I spot a lone figure moving through the brush, heavily shadowed.

Without thinking, I plunge forward, breaking into a sprint. My figure follows suit. The chase has begun—though to what cause, I cannot say.

Darting and ducking through the thick undergrowth, I am slow to advance upon the person I am pursuing. I grit my teeth and pull on. Whatever compels me, it is strong. I cannot describe my motivations for this chase, only that I desperately want to catch my prey, more than I've wanted to do anything in my entire life. More than I've wanted to pass my Anatomy final, more than I've wanted a puppy for Christmas, more than I wanted Evan Ross to kiss me at my Sophomore homecoming. With this realization, I surge forward.

We approach a clearing. Once in the center, my prey halts, but remains with its back to me. I can now see that it is a thin, wiry person with a small build. I stop yards away, wary. Half-turning, my prey reveals lank hair and a dingy cloak.

What kind of twisted game of Dungeons and Dragons had I fallen into?

"Who are you?" I ask, voice quavering just a hair. "And what do you want?"

There is a jittery cackle. "I believe those questions would be better suited for you, my pretty-pretty bookbinder's daughter." Says a voice, high-pitched and rougher than raw granite. "After all, it was you who started chasing me!"

"Wha—what do you mean? No! I asked you first!"

"Ah," The figure turns fully now. The moon is now behind their shoulder. Their face is so deeply shadowed, I can scarcely make out any features aside from a pair of wide, darkly shinning eyes. Shoulders forward, legs bowed, the fellow looks ready to pounce. "How about a deal? You tell me who you are, and why you think you are here, and I'll do the same for you."

"I—I don't like the sound of that. Besides, I don't make deals."

"Lies and nonsense!" It hisses. "You make them all the time, don't you?"

I shudder. "Fine. Fine." My hand shoots out. "Shake on it."

The figure snatches my wrist, locking it tight in their grip and forcing me forward. I slam into their chest, yelping at the contact.

"You go first."

"Ophelia Espen," I breathe. "And I don't know why I'm here. It's just a dream. A fucked up dream."

"Language." The creature tsks. A surge of remembrance courses through me. But then—

"Your name?" I ask desperately. I can feel the whole scene fading away. Waking up. I am waking up. "And why are you here? Why did I follow you?"

He tilts his head. We've turned just enough for me to make out pebbled green-gold skin, matted hair, and amber eyes.

"Oh, but my dear," He purrs. "You already know."

I am released to fall backwards, pushed into an abyss that has appeared beneath us. Sinking into darkness to scream and scream and scream until I wake up.

**-XXX-**

**Okay, so I have a massive tournament coming up. I won't be home till Sunday, but I probably will not update until I've watched the latest episode. So it might be as late as Monday morning. Sorry guys. I gotta spread these out, now that we've coming closer and closer to my limited-26, so far, in case anyone cares-so the updates won't be as frequent!**

**Thank you for the amazing response so far! Enjoy your MLKjr Day if you get it! What do you think of Ophelia's dreams? How is my Mr. Gold? **


	19. XIX

**Wow, what a wonderful response! Over 100 reviews! Thank you guys, I am so honored that you like this! **

** My tournament was completely horrid—Speech and Debate, eh-and checking my inbox for reviews brightened such a sucky time. **

**-XXX-**

Breakfast is a terse affair. Mr. Gold sits at the head of the table, reading the paper while I savagely butter my toast. Molly hides in the kitchen. I've done my very best not to be rude to her. The situation isn't her doing, after all. She has done nothing but her job. One cannot blame her for that.

Before the food even came to the table, Mr. Gold informed me coolly that my things would be arriving this afternoon, and that I wasn't excepted in the library for the next several days.

"What do you mean, _'my things?'_" I asked.

"Your clothes, personal items. Trinkets. Books. The like." He said shortly, unfolding the paper Molly had just delivered to the table.

"My stuff?"

"Precisely."

My mouth hung open. The pawnbroker casted me a look that very clearly says _"Stop-that-unattractive-behavior-at-once."_

"Why?"

"Because you're moving in."

Enraged, I pushed my chair from the table. "I am _what?_"

But he nipped my fury in the bud promptly. Snapping, "Sit down. You're still ill. I shan't have you shouting yourself hoarse to top off that fever."

So I sat. We didn't speak again. After I finished breakfast I ran upstairs (he called after me to stop that too, but with his limp he isn't likely to prevent me), and shut myself up in my room. When the boxes came I watched the movers carry them up to my new bedroom and then watched them drive away. My car is nowhere to be seen. Afternoon comes with a spring rain. I sit huddled among my boxes—my former life. The droplets on the window pane make interesting patterns, so I watch those, too.

Mr. Gold comes in. He sits beside me on the floor, laying his cane on top of one of the boxes. Without saying anything, he watches the rain with me. Together we stare at the funny patterns on the glass. After almost a half-hour, he limps to the bed to grab a throw, which is wrapped around my shoulders. I'm vaguely thankful, as I was getting cold. But my head feels so dull, I don't voice any words of appreciation.

**-XXX-**

He hasn't been to work for at least two days. I wonder if he's taken the week off as we walk together. It's my third day here, second fully conscious, and I wanted to take a walk after lunch. Mr. Gold agreed. This disgruntles me; I had not intended for him to come alone. I slipped into a pair of jeans and sneakers. When I met him at the base of the stairs he was still wearing his three-button grey pinstripe suit with a dark blue shirt and black tie. Saying nothing, I lead the way outside.

Boxes sit in my room, untouched. I haven't the heart to open them, for that will make my fate real. Secretly I'm hoping he'll change his mind, take me aside and apologize. Then I won't have to pack anything. I can just load up my car and return home. And kick Chris's ass.

But that isn't going to happen. Not after all the trouble he's gone to getting me here.

Our walk is a pleasant one. I don't speak, so neither does he. We don't do much besides soak up the glorious Maine air and enjoy nature at her best. There are paths throughout his woods, Mr. Gold says, for walking. He doesn't do it much, but that could change. If I want. It would be healthy. Nice. Wouldn't it?

I am struck by how domestic he sounds. Like this is _Leave it to Beaver. _As though when we get home I'll change into heels and pearls, fix up a pot roast, and we'll enjoy a lovely evening by the fire after dinner. So…domestic. So…settled. Is that what he wants?

I nod with him. More walks might be nice. Very nice.

**-XXX-**

We walk again the next day. He doesn't tire, but I see his hand move to the bad leg once, twice. Without making a fuss, I stop to give us a rest. His amber eyes burn to catch mine. I simply stare into the trees above. The sun is out, and the way the light is cast and how it plays through the green leaves, it can remind one of stain glass windows. The kind found in churches. Reverently, I send a small prayer up to the trees. _Please, let this work. _

The next day we do not walk, for it rains. Instead, Mr. Gold takes me to the library. I curl up on the couch—the same couch where he kissed me—while he hunts for something to read. He returns with _The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Volume I_. Before settling down beside me, he removes his suit jacket. My eyes grow to the size of saucers to see him shake the thing, then drape it on the arm of a nearby chair. He feels my gaze and glances up, frowning.

"Ophelia?"

I just look at the jacket, then him. His figure has altered—he is less boxy now, more reed-like and wiry. The deep green shirt my employer wears today compliments his tanned complexion. I cannot help but stare. After a moment, he comprehends. Chuckling, he limps to the couch.

"I don't sleep in them, you know." He says wryly. "That would be uncomfortable, besides."

Drawing my knees up to my chest, I rest my head on them and wait. Mr. Gold sighs.

"Very well then. 'A Study in Scarlet?'"

While he reads, voice capturing Victorian London perfectly, I think back to that kiss. It feels as though it happened age ago, but it was just….five days ago? Not even full week.

All the feelings of those fleeting minutes return to me—the heat, the pressure building, the insatiable feeling of wanting more, more, _more. _Shame suddenly crops up too, and I bury my face between my knees. Miffed by my own body's reactions, my face heats. Oh, why must I betray myself? I sense Mr. Gold's growing distraction. He stops in his reading.

"Is everything alright?"

Mortified, I nod. My face remains buried.

"I can stop, if you are tired." He offers gently. "Or, if you would like to change texts—"

"No, Sherlock is fine. Please, go on."

He does as I request, no more questions. Shoving away all memories of the kiss, I focus on the description of murder, deduction, and heartbreak. It turns out to be a thrilling—if lengthy—tale.

We walk the next day after lunch. Today it is a scarlet shirt, black suit, and crimson-and-slate patterned tie. I feel rather ratty in my blouse and dark brown pants. Our walk is shorter today, seeing as it is muddy from the rain. At one point, Mr. Gold slips on a stepper part of the path. I grab his arm without a thought, supporting him in a flash.

He thanks me slowly. I shrug.

On the way back to the manor, I let him catch my hand. We walk back at a steady pace. Molly's eyes widen when she greets us at the backdoor, informing us that tea is ready in the parlor. When I go up to my room following dinner, he stops me at the foot of the stairs.

"_Thank you._"

I do not question the gratitude. A soft kiss is pressed to my forehead, lingering. Then I am allowed to return to my room.

**-XXX-**

Weekend passed, Mr. Gold presses my car keys into my hand. I'm to go back to work. If I want, I can stop by my old apartment or see my sisters before coming home. He won't expect me till dinner, which will start at seven. Molly is making shepards pie. And, if it pleases me, I can go to my office and work on those books. If I want.

The library is the same as it was before; nothing ever changes here. Isabella is concerned for my health. I assure her that I'm fine, just still a little under the weather. I find my solace in shelving. Here everything has an order. Nothing can be altered. No rich bastard can sweep you up and re-order the alphabet or the Dewy Decimal System.

A little after three, Henry Mills wanders, school bag slung over his slim little shoulder. I smile down at him as he approaches the front desk. The little fellow is a real cutie. I can understand why his birth mother might want to hang around.

"Hey, Henry. What are you looking for today?"

"Hello Miss Espen," He says politely, just as Regina taught him. From across the room, I can see Isabella, distracted from organizing the magazine rack, grin. Henry frequents the library. He's been charming us since he was a toddler. "Do you have anything on the old mines? You know, the ones that collapsed?"

I blink. "Uh, I hadn't realized they had."

Henry tilts his head adorably. "Did you hear it? It was really loud, rumbling sound. Your apartment building isn't too far away."

Biting my lip, I tell him. "I've been a little indisposed—sick," I correct hastily when his brow furrows at the larger word. "So I've been sleeping a lot. Wow, I can't believe they finally caved in."

"Yeah," He agrees. "So, do you have any land survey thingies, or maps maybe?"

"Well," Typing a few keywords into my monitor, I extend the word. "Those would be in public records, under the land and water survey papers. Do you know where the public records room is?"

Naturally, he doesn't. I lead him to the basement, showing him the boxes upon boxes of information. It takes a little digging, but we manage to find a map as well as a survey of the land. I explain the converging lines and watersheds, the kid nodding vigorously the whole while. Even so, I can tell he is slightly disappointed.

"Is there something specific you were looking for?"

"Not really. Just general information. It's for a school project." He adds.

Like I believe that for a second. Mary Margret isn't such a sadist.

"Okay. Well, if you need any more help, just let me know. Do you want a copy of that map?"

He did. We return to the surface world for a quick copy, then I see him out. Returning the yellowed sheet to its box, a though occurs to me. Mary Margret. Zipper. _Crap. _

Almost as if the stars were in my favour, my cell vibrates in my pocket. I scramble to answer it. "Yes?"

"Hello, Ophelia? It's Mary Margret." Says a shy voice from the other end. "Your brother called me last night. He said you'd been sick, but wanted to tell me that bird I gave you, the lark, is all better?"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, leaning against the nearest shelf of boxes, pushing a fallen lock of hair from my face and behind my ear. "He's gone through rehab. I think he might be ready to release sometime this week. Would you want to come with me?"

She sounds excited. "Yes, I'd love to. I just feel so terrible for the sweet thing, I am so glad you were able to take care of him."

"When would work best for you?"

We settle on Wednesday night to meet in the park. Zipper is going to be pumped.

Knowing that Chris called her lessens my anger and disappointment toward him at least by a fraction. He is still in the red, anyways.

**-XXX-**

"Excuse me?"

I glance up from my computer. A thin blonde wearing a red leather jacket and faded jeans stands before me, hands on her hips. Her bright blue-green eyes are trained on mine. I get the sense that she is in some form of panic mode, though she's pretty good at hiding it.

"Can I help you?"

"Did a little boy about ten years old come in here? Dark brown hair, brown eyes, small? Had a backpack?"

Startled, I frown. "Do you mean Henry? Yeah, he was here just a few hours ago."

She narrows her eye intently. "Do you remember what he was looking for?"

"Information about the old mines."

Emma Swan's hands ball into fists. "And did he say anything about them?"

"Just that it was for a school project."

"Okay," Her shoulder tense. "Thank you."

Spinning on her heel, the young woman walks out. I watch her go, hoping with all my heart that the Mills kid is okay.

**-XXX-**

**Okay, this can give you another hint of where we are, a vague hint of a timeline. **

**Any questions? Just review! **

**I did recently get a question in regards to the bookbinding, and my knowledge of it. I did a bit of research-there are a number of websites by various companies that do bindings or repairs. Also, the Inheart series had a good deal of information. Someone flattered me with the thought that I might do binding for a living. I wish! I have made a few books-nothing major, just for personal use. Aside from that, it was all websites.**

**Many thanks!**


	20. XX

**-XXX-**

Wednesday morning, I inform Mr. Gold of my evening plans. He readily accepts this, wishing me luck on the bird release.

Over the last three days we have slowly reverted toward the former nature of our relationship. Conversation is still not easy, but I find relaxing around him to be not nearly as difficult as before. We read together every night. And taking meals together, that has eased the transition. Last night I discovered that his room was beside mine, something I hadn't realized previously. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it.

That evening, I meet a cheerfully Mary Margret by the swing set. She looks rosy and beautiful, as always. Mary Margret has always been one of my favourite people. She's just so sweet and darling, it is hard not to like her. Somehow Regina manages it. Then again, I doubt there are many people Regina genuinely likes at all.

"Can I see him?" She asks. I carefully lift up the cage. Zipper hangs suspiciously from his bar, making quiet bird-sounds occasionally. Now that we're outside he is quite content.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Eagerly, she nods. I gently scoop the little fellow into my hands, cupping his body so that only his head sticks out between where my hands meet. Mary Margret mimics this. He quivers under our touch. Before passing him over, I touch his breast, feeling for a heart. Ah. There it is. I smile.

Watching her hold the lark, I feel the urge to take a picture. She looks just too beautiful, cradling the shivering creature to her chest.

"I called him Zipper," I tell her. "Because I just knew that when he could fly again, he would zip around like a little plane."

She laughs. "That is perfect. I am so happy you're better, Zipper."

"You can let him go, if you want."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You found him. Go ahead."

After a moment of silence, Mary Margret opens her hands. Zipper hops once, twice, then tumbles away, soaring up, up, up until he is a brown speck in the hazy twilight sky. I beam.

"He's going to be just fine."

"Yes," I say in a whisper. "I can believe that."

Taking one look at me, Mary Margret moves to dig in her handbag, resurfacing with a tissue. She offers it to me, along with a half-smile.

"What's this for?"

"You're crying, Ophelia."

"Am I?" I lift one hand to my face. She's right. I accept the tissue. "Sorry."

"It's okay. We all do it, sometimes."

The weight of her words gives me the impression that Mary Margret has perhaps wept a lot recently. Pity swells in me.

"Thank you, Mary Margret. For this tissue, and for giving me Zipper."

"Oh, please." She squeezes my shoulder. "You're such a good person, Ophelia. He couldn'tve been in better hands."

**-XXX-**

I come home with red eyes and an empty bird cage. It isn't so much that Zipper is gone, but rather that he has left me here. The last symbol of my life at the flat, with my brother. Gone.

When I pass the gates and the manor comes into full view, I feel another wave of tears. I'm not usually a big crier. But I keep thinking of this as "home," when my home still is, in my heart, the two-story brick trimmed with white house that sits on the corner of Lone Wood and Pine. Isn't it?

Mr. Gold is in the foyer when I walk in. He's ready for my unexpected burst of tears, for when I melt, he produces a lien handkerchief from an interior pocket of his coat. I avoid the monogram as I blow loudly into it. It's done in a gold silk thread—simple, clean. _G. _

It occurs to me that I don't know Mr. Gold's name. I haven't the slightest clue, till now.

The man in question stands back, hands clasped. He patiently waits. But rather than calm down, I simply cry harder. With the lightest of sighs, Mr. Gold steps forward and takes me in his arms. We stand in the foyer like that for a long time. He holds me tightly, not even caring that I am getting his very expensive suit damp. I stutter an apology, only to have him stop me mid-sentence. When I'm just getting worn out, he takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs. Too tired to be nervous of his motives, I go.

He takes me to my room and closes the door. "Would you like a hot bath?"

Bath. A hot bath. Yes, that sounds lovely. I don't think I say this aloud. But somehow, he knows. He disappears into the bathroom. I curl up on my bed, listening to the rush of water through highly polished pipes. The water hits the tub at a comfortably constant rate. In no time, Mr. Gold returns to ease me from the bed and into the bathroom. I note that he's taken off his jacket again. Today's shirt is white. Simple. Classic.

He leave me in the bathroom, saying he'll return in a half hour, and will be in his own room next door should I need anything. I nod blandly.

The tub is steamy, filled to the brim with sparkling white bubbles. The scent of lavender and jasmine fills the tiled room. I undress mechanically and slip into the scalding water with a long hiss.

Normally I use baths such as this to mull over problems, recent event, etc. Today I don't bother with any of that. My problems have loomed over my entire life lately. I need a slot of time to clear my mind. And that's exactly what I do.

At precisely a half hour there is a tap on the bathroom door. Mr. Gold, calling to see if I am ready to come out. I step out of the tub (which is, by the way, a splendid claw-footed creation), flicking the latch that releases the stopper, and wrap myself in a towel.

"There is a nightgown on the vanity."

It's very similar to the once I wore my first night here—modest, white. Less bland, for this one is decorated a little, with violet ribbon. I slip it on, then go back to my bedroom where Mr. Gold waits.

"Are you hungry?"

_No._

_**"**_Do you want to talk?"

_No._

"Alright. Is there anything you need?"

I finally speak. "Could you…read to me?"

He tried to conceal his smile, but it breaks through anyways. "Of course. What would you like?"

_The Phantom of the Opera. _I show him to skip all of the beginning and go straight to "Apollo's Lyre." Chapter twelve. My favourite chapter. He makes to sit in the hard wood chair beside my bed, but I take his arm. The message is clear. With a very put-upon sort of sigh (though we both know he's just acting), Mr. Gold lowers himself onto the mattress alongside me. I lay on my side, facing the window as he begins. _"In this way, they reached the roof. Christine over it as lightly as a swallow. Their eyes swept the empty space between the three domes and the triangle pediment. She breathed freely over Paris…."_

I began to doze as the chapter nears the end. Closing the book, Mr. Gold leans over me, sweeping back a few stray locks of my coppery hair, letting his fingers linger on my skull. I reach up to catch those fingers, holding them.

"I know the transition is difficult. But I made you a promise, my love. You're a intuitive young woman. I know…" He repeats, drifting off.

There is that word. _You have a good intuition. _My fingers tighten.

"You've said that before. About my intuition."

He pauses. "Yes. I have."

"When?"

He whispers. I suddenly find his lips on my forehead, the words vibrating against my cold skin. "My clever Ophelia. Go to sleep, dove."

"I can't," I whisper back. "When did you say that?"

"A long time ago."

"I…."

"Sleep." Firm, Mr. Gold pulls the covers up to my shoulders. His weight soon leaves the mattress. Another brief kiss, and I hear the door close. A door down the hall opens, then closes milliseconds later.

**-XXX—**

**Okay, no more updates for the rest of the week—I've been grounded, and unable to watch the latest episode. Wait for late Saturday. Sorry guys! **

**Thank you for the reviews and support. I'll be checking up on my phone, so I'll still see 'em!**

**Oh, and there was a comment in regards to Ophelia's lack of a backbone—I intentionally make her that way for A) development, and B) I've never written a "weaker" more meek and timid character. There are a lot of attitude-driver, "wilder" characters on this site. I wanted to be different. **


	21. XXI

**Hey guys! I'm breaking the rules doing this, but I missed you. I think a lot of you are really going to like this chapter. Thanks for the amazing support. I've missed posting and missed you all. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and just a warning: things get a little intense in this chapter. **

**-XXX-**

Time passes. Soon the big manor house becomes familiar—at the very least, I can find all of the bathrooms, the kitchen, both dining rooms (formal and informal), the library, and various sitting rooms, parlors, and studies. There is more to the house, but it is not relevant to my daily habits. I've walked long and far every day, sometimes with Mr. Gold, yet still have yet to hit the property line.

In general, the transition has eased. Occasionally I remember something I'm missing; breakfast with Chris, Zipper, my bedroom with sky-coloured walls. Then I fall into a sort of depression that is brief and difficult to hide. But it's happening less and less. That's good, I suppose.

**-XXX-**

Zombielike, I shuffle down the grand staircase, heading to the dining room on leaden feet. It's breakfast time. The night had been a long one, and it shows. For the first time since I've taken up residence here, I intentionally slept in. On top of that, I've come down dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, face bare of cosmetics. Not a speck of makeup on my face. It's an off day for Molly, so my appearance won't be nearly as big of a scandal. Besides, today is Saturday. I deserve a break.

Mr. Gold is already downstairs, as always. Without glancing up from his paper, he pushes a plate of toast across the polished wood. I accept a slightly charred piece, buttering with numb fingers.

My neck aches terrible, my head throbs like none other. Oh, why? What god did I offend to deserve this?

When Mr. Gold tucks his paper together, he finally catches sight of my apparel. Absorbing this, his eyes move up to my face. His eye brows rise and fall. "Rough night, Ophelia?"

I grunt unattractively. "Very."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No particularly," I mumble around the lip of my glass, swallowing juice.

"Perhaps I can help?" He sounds sincere. I'm still hesitant, however. With good reason.

I shake my head. "I doubt it. Honestly, it's just silly."

"Try me."

Sighing, I say haltingly. "Dreams. I've been having bad dreams."

Mr. Gold frowns. "Nightmares?"

"No." I shake my head. "No. Not nightmare. They're…different. Sometimes they're like memories. I feel like they're things that have happened to me before. But I _know_ they didn't. They aren't my memories. And then others I'm running."

"Is that it? Just running? Or chasing?"

Startled, I set down my glass. "Uh, chasing."

"Whom?"

"Or what?" I counter. "I don't know. I always wake up before I can recognize the face. I run and I run, and sometimes I get them, but I wake too soon."

He muses over this. "And the memories?"

"They're all medieval-y. Sometimes I'm in a field, or a forest. There's a—a man. Well, I guess he is a man. He's got this greenish skin, like he's ill or something."

"And what do the two of you do?" Mr. Gold asks quietly. I smile.

"Are you going Freud on me?" I tease.

He gives me a half-smile. "They say dreams are memories. Perhaps…."

"No. I mean, this is definitely from the Dark Ages. We just…talk, really. Sometimes we, uh," I feel my face heat. "Sing."

"Sing. My, my, this sounds very serious."

I roll my eyes childishly. "Shut it. They're horrid."

Mr. Gold frowns. "How so?"

"Because I always wake up just feeling awful. Crying sometimes. Like my heart has been broken, it's that terrible. But I can't remember why."

I stare at my toast. The center, buttered part has gotten damp and soggy. Now it is even more unappealing. Soggy and burnt. I poke it with my butter knife. It's for the best, anyways. I wasn't feeling hungry. Not after discussing this.

"Are you happy, in these dreams?" Mr. Gold asks. His hands touch mine, finger tips stroking my knuckles.

"I…think so, yeah. I feel happy."

"So it isn't the dreams, but how you feel following them?"

"I suppose."

We sit for a moment. He keeps up his patterns of rubbing my knuckles, though he's not looking at me. I wonder what he must be thinking. They're just dreams. Nothing so important, really. I might have a bad night or two, but they're nothing that should cause so much fuss. If anything, we need to talk about his severe lack of causal day wear. By now, I've caught him in his pajamas. To my disappointment, he wears a traditional button-down matching cotton set, with long arms and legs. What I've seen from the washing, he's got blue, plaid, burgundy, and green versions, all monogrammed. _G._

"I am sure they will pass, my dove." He says calmly. "With time. If you want to talk about them with me, I'm sure we can make progress. To me, it doesn't appear they're damaging much more than your sleep. I am sure they're…nothing."

But the way he says that, with that tone, convinces me that no, it isn't _nothing. _My dreams aren't _nothing _at all. He knows it very wells. So…why convince me otherwise?

We finish breakfast. I go out for a walk, then take a nap before lunch. I nap again after lunch. I can tell he's anxious when he intentionally wakes me to go to town for a quick stop by the shop. We end up going by the green grocer's—seeing as it's midday hardly anyone is around, and those who we do see become convinced that I'm helping the pawnbroker find a jar of that special marshmallow whip. Even when we're in the produce.

Somehow, the fiend "accidently" manages to keep us out past dinner time, so we're forced to go to Granny's. It strikes me halfway through my burger that he's technically taken me out on a _date. _The thought turns my burger to dust in my mouth briefly and a rather unattractive expression on my face, to which Mr. Gold asks what is the matter. I swallow stiffly to assure him yes, I am fine.

We walk back to the pawnshop, where we left his car. The moon is high and bright. I bask in the pale light, content. It has been a good day, better than I would've expected after a fully shitty night. Mr. Gold glances over every so often, lips quirking. In this light, he is quite a sight himself. The shadows makes the lines of his face look even sharper, his eyes deeper, more mysterious. Just what he needs.

But I look again. He's smiling lightly. The way the light reflects off his pupils gives them a bright sort of look. He looks back at me, brows up. "Are you alright, Ophelia?"

He's asked that so much over the last move. Loads. Faintly, I nod.

"Yeah. I think."

Mr. Gold stops. We're in front of the shop, now. His smile deepens. "Your head is in the clouds."

I glance upwards. "They can't be. We've no clouds, see?"

The sky is clean, filled only with a sprinkling of stars.

"I suppose not." He lowers his head. I realize we're quite close. "So where is your mind then? It's been away from me all night."

"I don't know. Here and there. Might've popped off for a while, then." I find myself drawn closer to him. He shifts, and I'm backed into the doorway. "I've been so tired, you cannot blame me for distraction."

"Ah, I believe I can still find you at fault." He breathes. Oh yes, very close now.

_ "Maybe a little too close?" _My small, snide voice suggests.

No. Not too close at all.

When we've reached a point of intensity that is likely to catch attention, Mr. Gold drops his cane to dig through his suit pocket for his keys. Around my waist, the door is unlocked. We move across the shop, lips sealed together. I gasp when pressed against one of the glass counters. Lips savagely ravage my face, neck, collar….

Again we move. He drags me (fairly quickly for a man with a limp, thanks to the effect the promise of a hearty make out session) further into the shop. I lift myself onto his desk. The cane has magically appeared, against the small of my back, barring me from moving backwards. Not that I would want to. I smile against his cheek. No, I don't think I'll be moving for quite sometimes.

Mr. Gold is surprisingly limber and smooth for a man with only one fully functioning leg, and considering his age—presumably somewhere between forty and sixty, depending on the light-he's well-studied on the physical actions involved in relationships. Against him I arch my back, moaning with want. I can practically hear him smirk. Searing him with lingering kiss, I extract my revenge. He chuckles. Before long, I find myself horizontal across his desk. My breasts are being kneaded, my collarbone lavishes with his mouth, and oh, God, I am burning. In response, I hiss and arch, grinding against him.

I'm not this kind of girl. I don't have intense make out sessions with older men in creepy pawnshops. In fact, I haven't properly kissed a guy since high school. This isn't me. However, even with this on my mind, but body cannot help but react to every touch and sound. Because apparently even girls like me can play with fire.

When he enters me, I let out a soft sigh. It's almost a relief with all the pressure that has built up within me. I was truly burning against him, aching for release. At the time I come, he kisses me deeply to keep me from calling out. My shudder-wracked body helps him go as well. In the end we're left together, shivering on the top of his desk in the back of an ancient pawnshop.

And we'd just planned on going to the grocery store.

**-XXX-**

**Please note the rating has been altered. It's not too graphic, though—should I keep it at T? **

**What did you think? Please review! My first sex scene ever, so...yeah. **


	22. XXII

**As always, enjoy! **

**And mystery, your wish is my command! Soon enough for you?**

**-XXXX-**

Sex doesn't make things better. It's not like the books. We don't submit and let inhibitions rule us. Afterwards I am still miserable to have been forced to move into a large, sterile, unfamiliar house. He's still longing for my comfort. And whatever else his mysterious motivations demand from him. Life is still a little awkward. But at least now, we're trying.

I have to ask, once we get home, if we're safe. He's older, yes, but that does not necessarily the salmon aren't still swimming upstream. The question is asked in a very point-blank (yet painfully halting) manner. He laughs loudly, wrapping me his arms. My face and ears are hot. I can feel the blush spread to the tips of my toes. It's a legitimate question!

"No, my dear, you will be fine. Fear not, it shan't be a problem."

"You're sure? No Plan B?"

"I am certain," He says firmly. "We are 'in the clear.'"

We still maintain separate rooms, at least for now. It is not as though we're "official" in any sense of the word. Most of the town still thinks I live at the flat with Chris. Hell, my family (excluding Chris) thinks I'm living at the flat. We've yet to have a chance to talk. But it is not as though I am eager for the prospect. Jen and Drew will likely be appalled. They'll immediately jump to the worst possible conclusion. I can see Drew even storming up here herself to confront Mr. Gold.

Which is exactly why I am not going to tell them for a good, long time. Chris will keep his mouth shut, I'm sure, and it's not like any major holidays are approaching where I would be forced to see them excessively. This won't be hard. I hope.

The morning following our escapade is relatively normal in the terms of us. This means more casual—it's Sunday, so Molly is off again—so I wear sweats. Mr. Gold foregoes the suit jacket and tie, settling for a pair of trousers and a simple button-down It's laid-back for him. I like it.

We don't kiss. We don't hang off one another. In fact, we barely touch at all until the afternoon. All morning, through cooking and eating breakfast, working in the study, a walk, we restrain ourselves for the library, where I find myself straddling his wiry form on the very couch that got us into this mess, snogging the breath out of him. It's not necessarily romantic or sentimental, but rather something brutal and fierce. We don't go too far. This is fine for both of us.

**-XXX-**

I've returned to my office. The books lie on the desk; some half-finished, others ready to be shelved. Stacks wait, their spines cracked, bodies peeling. The sight of decaying texts always saddens me. Now, though, as I touch age-weathered covers I know that these things can be fixed. I can save them, return them to their former glories-no, a better glory.

For weeks I have held back from this work. The bait that drew me into the manor, the pawnshop. I cannot help but smile with this thought. He certainly knew what would pull me in. Either I'm transparent, or we are merely similar in our thoughts.

Now I can stand to try again. I feel my father's blessing. Pulled toward the dusty tomes, I know when to submit.

_"Perhaps it is time…."_

Hours and days find the completed volumes piled in chairs, on the floor, the sill. A week will find shelves of the library bare because so many books are in my office, appointed for a good cleaning. But soon even this is done and I am left without any sort of work.

After a while I start taking longer walks, then begin driving or walking into town, taking longer hours in the library, and, finally as a last resort, I take to hanging around the pawnshop. Mr. Gold finds this both amusing and obnoxious. He alternates between telling me to leave and finding me little chores. Eventually, I settle for staying.

Books are not my sole forte. I can restore wood and small furniture. After much begging, Mr. Gold grudgingly teaches me a few basics on jewelry, and (as neither of us knows anything about art) orders restoration instruction books for a variety of paint types and other mediums. In the mean time I polish the silver.

I am learning to love metals. Their textures, the way they gleam in certain lights, how they reflect light. As some adore gems, I'm falling for their settings. Cool, smooth, they, like books, can be reborn with a bit of care and elbow grease.

We begin to develop a routine. We eat breakfast. I go to work, he goes to his shop. After I finish my shift, which can run from nine to three, eleven to four, or anywhere in between, I walk the three or so blocks to the pawnshop. Mr. Gold sniffs when I enter. Sometimes there is a customer, but usually not. I trail to the back, for my small office. He may or may not join me, instructing my actions and guiding my hands through whatever task I've picked up for the day. When six comes around (or whenever he feels as though the day is "over"), Mr. Gold shuts things down. I walk back to the library for my car. He meets me at the manor—home—shortly. We never have to wait for dinner. I suppose he must call ahead to alert Molly. Dinner finishes, and we'll retire to the parlor for reading. It is technically a living room, but Mr. Gold insistently calls it the "_sitting room"_ or "_parlor." _The ancient terminology is endearing. It reminds me sorely, though, of the age difference between us.

One thing that constantly niggles in the back of my mind is our ages. More specifically his. For he has a sort of timeless feature about is face that, in the best of angles, give him the look of one just over thirty. Other lighting will turn him swiftly to sixty, the very worst sixty-five. Truly, he wearing a constant, inadvertent disguise with his angular features and tanned skin.

Once in the parlor we read, trading off who picks and who reads aloud. Sometimes I'll read to myself silently while Mr. Gold writes letters of business, or lounges beside me, head in my lap. Nowadays, it doesn't take much to coax the jacket off, as well as the tie, even his shoes.

When this is over, when I'm trying desperately to hide my yawns like a stubborn child, and my motions turn sluggish, it is time for bed. Mr. Gold takes me by the elbow, guiding me up the stairs (as it is not unusual for me to become misplaced when in such as state while wandering to my room alone). This does nothing for his own balance, so I usually find myself supporting him. We'll half-hobble upstairs and to our separate rooms. It is very intimate, more so than perhaps anything we've ever done.

From there we prepare for bed, always in our respective rooms. And where we end up after…well, that usually depends on the night. If the day has been long, one is will find me alone in my four-poster. But if it was short, and the evening pleasant, we'll snooze in his room.

I like Mr. Gold's room. It is simple, masculine. The colours are based around a selection of warm golden hues and muted greens. His bedsheets smell of pine, sage, with hints of smoke. I love to curl up in the mass of white, inhaling the scent of him and the sheets. There is sometimes just an edge of sex mixed in, too-when Molly hasn't done the washing for a few days. A shameful part of me enjoys this just as much as the pine.

Sleeping away from my bed can prevent the dreams. When I lie beside Mr. Gold I never have those "flashes of memory," or mysterious chases though thick woods. It is just another motivation for sleeping in there, really.

**-XXX-**

We're lying in bed one morning, when a thought occurs to me. I roll over to lie on my stomach. Twirling my hair, I ask, "How long did you plan this little deal you've gone and trapped me in?"

The inquiry does not concern him in the least. Staring up at the ceiling, he considers the question.

"Perhaps since you were fifteen. The notion began than, at the very least."

Horrified, I freeze. "_Ten years ago?"_

"Yes, the summer you began working at Granny's."

I'd almost forgotten. Before Ruby was old enough to work legally, and when Granny was starting to have legit health issues, several girls around town had taken up waitressing jobs at the restaurant. I had worked two summers. Mr. Gold patroned frequently, if I recall it right.

"I wasn't even legal!"

He scowls at the shadowed ceiling as though it has greatly offended him. "I didn't act on it, did I? I merely realized I had found a goal and I was going to aim for it. I'm not that much of a monster. Waited, didn't I, for you to be of age? And then some, nearly seven years."

"Still," I mumble.

"Oh, shut up." He rolls on his side to kiss my shoulder blade.

I continue, pulling away. "You're practically a pedophile. Legitimately."

Mr. Gold rolls back, flat on his back, groaning loudly. "Ophelia, it was ten years ago—"

"My point exactly."

He ignores me. "—and really, it ought not be such a spectacle. The thought of attempting to advances before you were past teenage years disgusted me. I did not approach you until you were of a proper age."

"You never even did that." I snort. "More like mauled my face."

He is impassive. "You weren't exactly protesting at the time, if I recall, lovely. If I remember correctly you responded quite nicely. Sighs, and such."

Swatting in his general direction, I curl into myself. "Only at first!"

My partner catches my chin, forcing me to look up. I stare into his auburn eyes. For a fully minute, we just gaze at one another.

"I would have had you at any time I pleased. I _chose_ to wait for your sake. Does it truly matter when I decided to have you? Ophelia, be reasonable. We're happy now, aren't we?"

My silence is answer enough. Mr. Gold withdraws his hand. He sighs, "Not yet, I see. I had hoped…but I suppose not."

I hang my head. "I am happy. I'm happier than I've been in ages. But…you have to understand. This isn't the life I imagined myself. Not at all. And you must know this, because you're not a fool. I didn't think I'd be a mistress, still stuck in this damn town, working in a library. That was never my plan, Mr. Gold."

He is quiet.

"Sorry," I mumble to the pillows.

"As am I. You're right. This isn't necessarily considerate to you." Mr. Gold hesitantly touches my neck. "My intention wasn't to trap you, merely…open an option you perhaps would have not seen before. Surely you must know by now that you're more than…warm flesh to me. You're more than…."

To silence him, I brush his lips gently with my own. I didn't want to have this conversation, not now. Not really. But he'd said what I never expected to hear. It was practically a declaration of feeling. I did not want to hear any more. The feelings coursing through me, hot and painful, are unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Something like scary. He seems to feel the same way, for when I pull back, he simply looks at me, running a hand through my hair, watching me as one watches a skittish horse pacing it's stall, ready to seize freedom at any opportunity.

**-XXX-**

**Sooooooo….I'm back. For now! I managed to FINALLY download True North and covert it yesterday…not a ton to work with there. I'm probably going to upload once more today. Then I'm hoping to crank out two more chapters this week, bringing us up to 28….**

**Thank you for the reviews and the support. I saw most people agreed that M is the best possible rating. I've never written M before, so thanks for the input guys! **

**What did you think of True North?**


	23. XXIII

**-XXX-**

The dreams begin to come, even as I progressively take to sleeping exclusively in Mr. Gold's room. By now, I only go to my room for privacy, or to dress. We're in no hurry to combine sleeping quarters fully-each of us having a private space is the best for our relationship. It is more comfortable to have separate areas, anyways.

As my time in Mr. Gold's room increases, the dreams fight back. It becomes brutal. I can spend what feels like the equivalent of a day, or several hours, stuck in the other world, only to wake and find mere minutes to have passed. I go back to sleep and go straight back into the dreamland. It becomes torturous. I can come and go up to eight times in one night. Sometimes, I awake bawling like a child.

Oh, my heart feels like it's been pulverized through a blender every time. I am desperately pained by a feeling of loss. Heartbreak. An ache that remains for days on end.

Mr. Gold often wakes with me. He doesn't ask anymore, just takes me into his arms, allow the sobs to wrack my body while he runs long fingers down my spine. In these moments, he is impossibly gentle. Until I stop crying he is silent-knowing, somehow, that there is nothing to be said. Afterwards I feel the need to reassure him that these seconds of misery are not his doing, not our life or our arrangement but something sinister. The dreams.

He offers to find me doctors. We buy books. I avoid sleep like the plague, often suggesting racier ways of staying awake. But there is only so much my companion can take. After some time, I submit to buying a variety sleeping pills at the drug store. The kind that puts you out so deeply dreams are rare. The dreams are submerged for a while. But they do return, in flashes.

**-XXX-**

I'm standing in the middle of the clearing. The moon is high and bright, weeping into her dark blanket, speckled with bright stars. They're brighter than any stars I have ever seen. I must be far into the country.

"I'm tired tonight." I announce.

"Pity. We were going to have such fun."

I roll my eyes heavily. "Right. Fun. You mean that part where you're all evasive and I'm forced to chase you through a forest and other such shit."

"Language, my lovely." He admonishes. The scolding is a familiar one, but I shake the reminder away.

"Do we have to go through this every time?"

"I don't know." Finally circling into view, my stalker stops before me, hands on his slim hips, smiling. "Do we?"

"Please. Just. Leave. Me. Be."

"Since you asked so nicely-No."

I groan, fisting my hands. He's already anticipating my next actions. My fists make contact with the stiff jacket, pummeling the leather. The imp just laughs.

"Spitfire, as ever."

"What did I do to deserve you?" I growl.

His hands rest on my forearms. Rubbing my skin slowly, his eyes migrate upwards to finally meet mine. "You were a kind and compassionate person."

I frown. "That's some messed up karma, then. Aren't the wicked supposed to burn in a fiery pit? So if I'm suffering, are they in condos in Florida?"

He tilts his head, the light reflecting off the pebbled skin in an unnatural way. Then again, skin of that texture isn't exactly natural. "Florida?"

"You can't be a conception of mine if you don't know what Florida is." I tell him. "What is this?"

"Nothing more than a memory."

Growling, I attempt to turn out of his arms. "Not mine. I've never been here before. And I certainly don't remember you."

Slighted, he tightens his hold. So much that I am against his chest. I squeak. He ignores me, saying, "They are, you have, and I'm offended."

"Ghhhhhh, get away!" I gasp, straining against him. "You're seriously mistaking our level of personal boundaries."

He does drop his arms.

"If this is all some riddle my mind is trying to throw at me, a clue or two wouldn't hurt. I don't understand of this."

"You will."

And then I begin to wake.

**-XXX-**

Another night, another dream.

Mr. Gold pulls us into a sitting position. My tears quickly soak the front of his pajamas. I apologize, over and over. I don't know why I'm crying and it makes me so mad. Balling my fists, I grit my teeth and stem the flow of water, tightening my eyelids till they hurt. My throat grows sore from the weak mewing sounds I'm attempting to prevent. It is a useless effort.

"Shhh." He says, same as every time, rubbing my back. "What as it this time?"

"There was a…cell. It was so dark. Cold. Rotten. And he was there. It was terrible, he was living in those conditions. I was trying to say something, when these clouds fill the room. I'm screaming when I drown in them. Then I wake up."

He nuzzles my cheek, an unfamiliar action from him. "I won't let any clouds take you, lovely."

It sounds so silly, now, when he says it. Clouds. Eating people. Ridiculous. Like a fairy story.

"Promise?"

"Of course."

**-XXX-**

The news comes on a beautiful night. We'd gone to bed early, spent an age teasing one another around the room before falling onto a heap on the mattress. At times I fear he felt guilt over his age, but playfulness like this could keep anyone lively. Once in bed he had kissed me, long and hard and sweetly, running long hands down my sides. It didn't take much to "suggest" the clothing off of my body. We make long, laborious love, then went to sleep.

First, there was a call, late. Ringing loudly to wake us—I was just drifting off while his elegant fingers were tracing the lines of my back-and my partner sits bolt upright. He snatched the phone from it's cradle. It is a charming, old-fashioned piece. Mr. Gold doesn't favour cellular phones, so it is completely him.

This isn't the first time we've been interrupted, but he's never moved so quickly to answer. It is almost as though he realizes the urgency of the person on the other end.

Who ever is on the line speaks at a rapid pace. My partner nods once, twice. Then he's hanging up, swiftly moving out of bed to limp across the room to his closet. There, he disappears among the mass of suits. The closet lights flicker on in his wake. He rummaged about. When he returns, he's working through the intricate motions of a tie. I blink slowly.

"What is it?" He's never left in the night before. At least, not while we've slept together.

"Don't concern yourself." His voice is sharp. I flinch. Finished with his tie, his grows gentle. Approaching the mattress, he sits on the very edge. "Don't concern yourself," He repeats softly, catching my chin. "Go back to sleep, Ophalia."

I sit back and obey. Until he leaves, that is. When I hear the start of a motor (a beautiful sound, pistons), I rush to the window. He's with his cane, now. Glancing upwards, his eyes are automatically directed to this particular window. But combined with the glare of the moon and the sheen of the glass, his eyes go unseeing. He drives away.

He returns just past one. I watch the pair of headlights creep up the gravel frive. The front door opens, closes, and I fly back to bed. It all feels undeniably childish. I decide not to grace the face with a fake attempt at sleep. Mr. Gold enters with heavy limbs. The cane is place on the dresser.

Without removing his clothes, he comes to bed, sitting beside me once more. His eyes, already bagged, are very tired. I gaze up at him, waiting patiently.

"The Sheriff…Graham…is no longer with us."

The words are so delicate. Like glass sculptures, the funny hanging ones in his shop. Tenderly created and impossibly easy to shatter. I stare, uncomprehending. "Graham quit?"

"No, love." Gold says quietly. "He had a heart attack this evening, It was fatal."

The words still do not register. "But—he's so young."

"These things do happen."

They do. But not to people you know. Graham has been sheriff since I was a kid. He used to take coffee and pie at Granny's all the time, more often than he actually worked. He always tipped well. He was kind. Smiled just the right amount. Everyone _likes _Graham.

How could this have happened?

Weary, Mr. Gold removes his shoes and tie. Without thinking, I rise up on my knees to unbutton his shirt—a black-and-white plaid. He allows this, unresistant. From there, I move to his belt, pants, socks, till he's left with nothing but an undershirt and his boxers. It is not erotic motivations that lead me, merely at basic want of distraction. Besides, he's tired. Best I do it.

Looking into his eyes, I can see a reflection of my own ache. He liked Graham, too. Graham treated everyone with respect, even Mr. Gold.

I tenderly press a kiss into one of his sharp cheeks, holding it there for minutes on end. Mr. Gold returns the embrace before tugging me into bed once more.

**-XXX-**

**Sad chapter! Graham's death will be addressed further, probably through 25. I just finished 26 today, and I'm waiting to start 27 with tonight's episode! Don't expect an update till...Wednesday-ish. I've got some big plans, but I need to mull over the episode before I can fit in something of a plot twist. These people can only be happy for so long, you know. **

**Thank you for the reviews and support! And please review some more...?**

**Questions? Feel free to ask! **

**How did you like this week's sad little beauty? **


	24. XXIV

Naturally, Mr. Gold owned Graham's apartment. Which left the task of going through his belongings to us. Graham had no kin, at least none that were nearby, or in any sort of address closest thing he had to girlfriend (which, as Mr. Gold reported, was Regina), scorned all of our attempts in requesting aid. It felt odd, arranging all this stuff for a person I scarcely knew.

Things like cook wear, clothing, food, and linens went to charity. His estate was being handled by others, so I left all paperwork and files aside. We emptied the bathrooms, sold the meager selection of furniture, and returned all county property—his keys, the never-worn uniform, the badge, etc.—to City Hall.

All personal possessions went into a lidded cardboard box. There wasn't much. A few photos. Trophies. Newspaper clippings. A gold watch with a leather strap. A saint's medallion. His worn jacket. A pair of old walkie talkies. Some books. A notebook, filled with barely-legible entries regarding dreams. He did not own many sentimental goods.

"I'll let Emma look at these," Mr. Gold says quietly as I nestle a pocket knife into a small carved wooden box. "They had become rather close. Perhaps she might like the jacket."

I nod. Opening another drawer, I find a folded and yellowed newspaper article, clipped neatly. Uncreasing it, I find the announcement of Graham's posting as sheriff. A fresh-faced Graham smiles up at us, shaking hands with a cool Regina Mills. Her face had barely changed. Still pale, cold, and empty in the eyes.

"I am sorry, my dear." A hand falls on my shoulder. "You shouldn'tve come."

"No! You couldn't have done this all alone. It's fine, I just…he was sheriff forever, Mr. Gold. Everything will be so different."

He sighs heavily. "Yes. I know. I know very well. Regina has already instituted changes in policy. It hasn't even been a week."

I whisper. "He was such a good man."

"Yes."

**-XXX-**

Later that afternoon, I am met with an announcement. Paired with a bottle of icy orange soda and a slice of Ruby's cherry pie, Mr. Gold rejoins me in Graham's apartment. He is on edge, but in a positive way.

"Emma," Is all he says.

I wait. There is no response. "Okay. What about her?"

"She can be sheriff. She's the one."

What?

"But—she's not even from around here! She's been here for two months and—and—"

"She is damn good at her job." He cuts me off. "And she isn't afraid of Regina. Don't you see, Ophelia? This town is on the verge of change! Emma Swan may be the only one who can see it through. She needs that position."

"Nobody is going to vote for the newcomer."

"Oh, they will. I intend to help her. And I intend to win. Regina's reign is coming to a close. Ophelia, you spend more time around the general society than I; you know what they desire. Do they truly wish for Ms. Mills to continue running this town, or are they ready for change?"

I shake my head. "It isn't that simple."

"Ah, but it is." In a loud voice, he straights himself. "Emma Swan will be sheriff."

I roll my eyes, digging into my pie. He's gone for the dramatics. Of course. "Mr. Gold, forgive me, but I think you—" I stand, drawing my fork up to his mouth. He accepts the bite readily. Everyone loves Ruby's pie; it is sinfully good. "—need to shut your pie hole."

He smiles then, around my fork. It's the first time in days. I can't help but grin back.

Maybe he is right. Maybe we do need a little change.

**-XXX-**

Fast forward three weeks. The afternoon of the "Great Debate" between Sydney Glass and Emma Swan. Mr. Gold has not, as far as I've seen, printed off a single poster, nor has he won a _"Swan for Sheriff" _t-shirt (red and blue, how patriotic), nor has he coached her in her responses for the debate. In fact, all I've seen him do is hang around the shop for the past two weeks, using the horrid sheep fat-stuff to water-proof a variety of things. The sheer force of the smell has deterred me from the place for days on end. He doesn't seem to mind, telling me that "absence makes the heart grow fonder."

The library closed early for the debates. Mr. Gold and I had arranged to meet at City Hall before they began. He awoke eager yesterday. But this morning he is withdrawn, slow. It was an odd change. He was silent through breakfast. When I met him midday at the shop, he waved me off to poke around the back. I followed, stopping by the stuffed penguin to stroke the oily feathers. But he ignores me, saying I ought to go back to the library until the debates. If he were a nervous person, I would assign the behavior to anxiousness, but he's not that type of person.

I leave, feeling slightly humiliated and just a little anxious.

When he arrives, nearly late, wearing a black suit and bright royal tie -"Patriotic, really?" I hiss, but he ignores me to simply squeeze my thigh, lips tight- I note the closed-off behavior once more. He does not say a single word, merely sits, attentively thrust forward, cane between his legs, fingers together. Perhaps he is nervous. This strikes me as both odd and endearing. I've known for some time that he dislikes Regina and wishes her power diminished, but it is a town election. Not anything like the season finale of Grey's Anatomy, or a national primary. Still, the eagerness is almost sweet. But then-

"…the fire was a set-up."

I automatically scan through a list of people who could have potentially started a fire. Emma's group of friends were all solid, goodly sort. They surely would not have done anything so malicious. It could not have been some petty vandals, the fire was specific. Carefully designed so that no one would be hurt. So then who…?

The moment she says his name, I know it to be the truth. I freeze as all eyes turn to the man seated next to me, resting against the gold-tip of his ebony cane. He has grown ridged. No one speaks directly toward him—many are still unsure of what to believe. As Emma continues, he stands (again, greatly limber for a man with a bum leg) and sweeps from the room without a single word. I am left to stare at the floor wondering why, why, _why? _

As Emma leaves the stage, I know one thing. She's gotten my vote without a doubt. It still counts, even as a pity vote.

**-XXX-**

Apparently, pity votes are just enough to win the race when you're Emma Swan. She wins by a good dozen, or so. I catch the end of the celebration as I return from Chris's apartment. I've spent most of the afternoon there, watching _America's Next Top Model, _chowing down on Girl Scout cookies, and ignoring my cell phone. It has been blowing up my pocket ceaselessly since roughly two hours after the debate. No texts, just calls, as Mr. Gold loathes the small buttons on the phone's keypad, and cannot stand cells anyways. I stoically let all calls drop. He wants to talk? Fine, he'll just have to wait till I come home. Which, at this rate, might be never.

"_Never_" ends up being eleven o'clock. Chris finally snatched the remote from me in a mad haze, insisting I go"home" before Sundai and Kara's bickering rots my brain. I leave relucantly. Once "home," I am careful to shut the door on my arrival. He isn't in the foyer, nor the kitchen. I slip upstairs, ducking into my room after checking the door to his own quarters. They are tightly sealed. Even if he is awake, I would prefer to wait to discuss matters by dawn's early light (_Oh, gods, this election stuff is making me_ think _patriotically,)_.

I quickly shuffle off my shoes, shirt, jeans, and begin to pull on a set of sweats when a voice floats through the darkness.

"It is terribly late, my dear."

The lamp on my bedside table flickers on. There he sits, under my covers. I can make out a neatly pressed nightshirt. A glass of water sits on the low table. He looks calm, unperturbed by today's events. Not even the damnation of his spotless reputation could ruffle his feathers?

He goes on. "You missed dinner. Molly made curry chicken. We were ever so disappointed you never arrived. And you failed to respond to my calls."

Dressed in nothing but my underwear, I stalk forward. "A fire? Honestly? A _fire?"_

He eyes the finger I've stuffed in his face. "Yes. A fire."

"Are you mad? You could've killed someone! I know Regina is a pain, I know nobody likes her, but seriously? A _fire?" _

"It worked, didn't it?" He's examining his nails. Careless.

"No, it did not work, she—" I pause. "—was elected."

"Which was the goal."

I stare. The cogs are turning, the gears grinding. It's like a wrench has been thrown into the machine, though. Things are getting foggy from the smoke. My mind snaps and pops, trying to comprehend the meaning behind his four little words. The tone say it all. He's got a fair point. But… "No. No way. That's insane."

His browse raise. "Insane, or intuitive, my love?"

"Insane, without a doubt. You might've hurt someone." I gape. "Or hurt yourself! You great idiot!"

Without warning, I slug him in the shoulder. He snaps to attention, dragging his attention from his nails to scowl. "Control yourself, Ophelia."

_"A fire?"_

"We've been over this," He reminds me. "Yes. Although, there is no definitive proof. Construction sites contain many flammable materials."

I sneer. "That's what you told her, I'm sure."

"Yes, indeed."

"Get out of my bed."

"My house, in case you need reminding."

"Get out, or I will just go to your room and muss up your sheets."

"It's locked, love."

I consider this. "Then I shall sleep on the couch downstairs."

He shakes his head. "You've got work tomorrow. Stop this nonsense. Come to bed."

"No!" I jerk away. "You don't even regret any of it!"

Mr. Gold sighs. "Ophelia, must we? The subject has been put to rest. Come here."

I stand, stock-still. "I'll sleep on the couch and pleasure myself very loudly. You'll go absolutely mad."

"No, you won't. Because you're coming to bed. We're both tired. It's late. Come to bed." He repeats. "Ophelia."

But I storm downstairs, still in nothing but my underwear. I find myself in the parlor. Using a throw for a blanket, I settle on the couch. It's a little cold, but it shall do nicely. I don't pleasure myself, however. He's right, I am tired. Though, maybe next time. Just to torture him a little more.

**-XXX-**

**Oh yes. She went there.**

**So...so far have up to 29 finished. I'm hoping to post 25 by Thursday. I have another tournament Fri-Sat (and, sadly, for the next month or so it's going to be like this), so after that maaaaaybe Sunday. That aside, I need to start working on scholarship business ASAP, so updates might be thrown off a bit. **


	25. XXV

**I got a ton of alerts this last time. Which is fantastic! But do you know what else would be fantastic...reviews! I can't tell if I'm doing good, or bad or...yeah. So please give me feedback! Questions, comments, critiques, etc! I'd love 'em.**

**Plus, I have a tourney tomorrow, so it would be really cool to wake up to a crap ton of reviews. *hint, hint***

**You guys have been so great. I am especially thankful to my regular reviewers. You're amazing. 3 **

**I've taken a stab at 31-32, but only 26-30 is officially finished. Expect another chapter Monday...maybe Sunday, if I am especially motivated. **

**-XXX-**

_From that corner he creeps into view, eyes heavily shadowed. Teeth, which are far yellower than before, flash. In the dim and flickering light, his skin appears scaly, and glitters. The already mussy hair is lank and greasy. He's at the bars quickly, clinging to the spikes._

_"My lovely little bookbinder's daughter," He breathes. "Come to visit her demon, her fearsome mage." There is mad laughter. "Why, beauty, have you come to me on this night? You know what night it is." His voice drops._

_"Who are you?" I approach, hesitant."Why are you here? Why aren't we in the forest this time?"_

_His expression alters to something a little more savage. "Two months. Two months, and I have had to pick and pry to find anything about this babe. They've not acted kindly—rarely a meal passes without some sedative being slipped into my drink." The __ink __in this last word is punctured painfully. "Makes the visions come far more frequently…yet they do not want to listen."_

_"And oh, to look about your most beauteous face…" A single finger is extended to trace my jaw. Unconsciously, I lean into the touch. "…I would fear I am dreaming, my dear, if I hadn't foreseen your coming. My most resourceful Ophelia. Tonight…tonight it comes! Ahahahahaha!"_

_He savors his moment, rolling in his laughter. _

_I come closer, wrapping my hands around the fractured bars. "Tonight?"_

_"Yes, yes, yes! Soon," He hisses. "We shall be gone from this place."_

"_Whoa. I'm not technically here as it is, you…you. And you're not coming with me."_

_Hands find my waist and I am thrust into the bars. His hands burn feverishly. High above, the tiny window darkens. I strain my neck to see dark, smoky clouds ahead. A storm._

_"It's here, it's here," He chants. Lips are pressed to my neck. I shudder into him. The dried skin puckers, then opens to nip and lick. Savagely, hands trail down my form, while my shoulders are given open-mouthed kisses. The precise and luxurious style of his lazing tongue forces me to remember someone else who has worshiped my body is such a manner._

_Cold has sweep over the cell. The clouds shift through the small opening in the ceiling to curl around us. Like a weary kitten, it rests at our feet._

_ "What's here?"_

_Again, laughter. "The thing that shall take us away, away!" He sings against my skin. "Out and away, to another happy ending."_

_"Where are we going?" I ask breathlessly._

_"Someplace horrible!" His cackle is broken. And I think, __"_What could be worse than this_?" _

_The darkness begins to wrap around us, twisting to cover our bodies. Frighten, I unconciously push closer to the imp, who seems not afraid, but rather excited and energized. How can he be __enjoying __this? His hands roam my body, not offering much comfort. Instead, I feel repelled. Wishing to recoil, I thrust back. But he maintains a good hold on my limp wrists._

_Without warning, he takes my lips ferociously, saying as he pulls away, "Whatever world or land we find ourselves in, we'll be together. I promise you. You may not recall this life, but I shan't let you go. I swear it. We'll be together."_

_ It's then, before the clouds rise to drown me, that I stare into his bright eyes. In the unsettlingly wide pupils, I see amber and gold. Gold. _Gold. _And then I can see it, see traces of my-of Mr. Gold in the demon, in the sharpness of his face, to his thin, strong hands, and playfully dark eyes._

_ The thought is absorbed. I gasp loudly. "No—I don't even know _what _you are. I don't want—"_

_ Again, he takes my mouth. Through curled lips, he murmurs. "Oh, but you shall." His half-lidded eyes are suddenly guarded. "Ophelia."_

_ That's it. Just my name._

_ And then-darkness._

**-XXX-**

"I get it," I say abruptly, propping myself off the pillow with one elbow. In the night, I'd found myself curled next to the pawnbroker on the fold-out bed of the couch. "You didn't it to put Emma in power. You did it for yourself. To put the sheriff's office in your pocket."

"Yes?" He smiles. "Come now, Ophelia, I am a mere pawnbroker—what would I need from the sheriff? This is shady business you're speaking of."

Which is the only kind of business he deals in. The question just fuels me further.

"I don't know." I stubbornly, recoil from him. "I haven't the faintest idea—It's not like you've ever dealt in any sort of criminal actions such as, say, blackmail or arson."

Mr. Gold laughs lightly. He finds this all kinds of hilarious. "I run a pawn, my love. Not a crime family, or a mob. You've been watching too many episodes of _The Sopranos._"

My TV addiction aside, I know I'm right. Life is a huge power struggle for him. It would be perfectly natural for him to trap Emma Swan as he did, placing her just where he wanted. Logical. Sensible. He must have jumped at the chance, planning it mere hours after Graham passed. I would've, if I was a deranged old man, too.

Old is still debatable. In certain light, he appears nearly-youthful. The lines vanish mysterious, and his eyes gain a playful air. Other times, he can look exceptionally ancient. His wrinkles become deep crevasses, his sockets hallow, hands curl into chicken-claw fists. The transformation is swift, frightening. One must wonder if he notices, or takes measure to increase either appearance.

At this very moment, he appears youthful, even buoyant.

"Ophelia. We should be rejoicing. Regina has lost just a little more of her grip on Storybrooke. This calls for wine."

"Do you always drink in celebration of your arson attempts?"

"Always," He answers gravely.

He climbs for the couch-bed, and hands me his robe. I watch him stretch, wincing with several motions. The rollaway, while convenient, mustn't be very good for his aging limbs. Something akin to sympathy swells in me, and I hand him his cane without comment. Together, we enter the kitchen, where a bottle and pair of chilled glasses await us. He pours both glasses in steady measure. Handing me the stem of one, he raises his brows. "Unless you have any qualms?"

It's barely eight in the morning.

I accept the glass. "Not as far as I know." I say cheekily. "So, to Emma's election."

"Grand," He _"clinks" _the lip of his glass with mine, but does not drink. Instead, he turns the crystal in his hands, watching the light reflect off the faceted surface. I sip slowly.

"Do we have to go in today?"

Mr. Gold doesn't glance up, but his tone is one of surprise. "I suppose not, my love. Are you tired?"

I nod.

"A day off does sound like just the thing. A proper treat, after this victory." He muses.

The word _"treat" _privately thrills me. It is a word hardly used, old-world and charming. Though I'm still pissed, my heart trills a little with his inclining head and soft smile. Yes, a day off would be quite a treat.

**-XXX-**

**Just a quick note: For those of you who might not recall, the top section was taken from chapter 9, however, the POV and some other minor details were altered given Ophelia's fake memories, etc.**

**God, I cannot believe I just typed that. Soap opera, anyone?**

**Anyways, in coming chapters (particularly 29) there will be some very key details that correspond/are in relation to things seen in earlier, pre-Storybrook chapters. I'm getting bored, and Ophelia is going to _really_ begin noticing some things that are going to "rock the boat."Just a head's up. Don't forget, I'm alway open to questions/comments. **

**As always, thank you for the support. Please review. **


	26. XXVI

**Amazing response, guys! Thank you for the reviews, they really pepped me up.**

**Okay, there have been a few questions:**

**Rayvah: Do you have an idea on how this is going to end? Or are you going to just write as the episodes come out? That could take years to do the whole thing! Not that I'd be complaining about being able to read this for years, but you might lose interest in the story after awhile. **

**I'm going to always update a few chapters behind the latest aired episode, simply so that I can freely make alterations in line with the canon. When I began, I didn't honestly think that Once Upon a Time would last more than one season-thankfully, it appears I am wrong. There are two options that I see right now: the story goes on hiatus between seasons, or I leave it at a neutral point after the season 1 final. It will be finished, possibly revisited if and when the show's storyline concludes. **

**Absolutcheshire: I have noticed a lot of grammar errors and some misspellings, do you have a beta reader? If not, I can beta read for you if you like. **

**This is the first time I've been told of them-not that I'm saying I'm a perfect writer, just that people haven't noticed/haven't cared. Some of the grammar ones, primarily sentence frags, are purposeful. Misspellings may be dialect choices, etc. I'm not making excuses, but some of my style choices break the rules. As for a beta reader, I am wary about taking one on. The one time I let someone beta, it was a really disappointing experience. Personally, for the sake of time, I would not be inclined, unless there are further complaints. The offer is very, very kind, however, and thank you so much. **

**As always, enjoy. Please review!**

**-XXX-**

The next Sunday I meet Mary Margret for lunch. We have not spent loads of time together before, the elementary school teacher and I. But our combined efforts toward saving Zipper must have lit a flare of kinship in Mary Margret, and I was not about to decline the offer. I like her. She is perhaps as little tender-hearted, but that very gentleness and kindness is very appealing in a friend. Plus, she has a remarkable capacity for logic and reason, another wonderful quality. Reason is something I've seen a decline in, lately, in my new living situation.

"I though perhaps you might like a chance to get out," She says as we are seated. "After all that time you spend in the library, and whatnot."

Mary Margret is dressed in a lightly ruffled mint-coloured calico blouse and neat blue jeans, paired with beige satin ballet flats. She looks very well-put-together. Brushing a few strand of black hair back from her round face, she turns those bright blue-green eyes upon me. They're soft, yet sharp. I have the distinct feeling Mary Margret senses a great deal more than anyone would every give her credit for. She's sensative; not in a boo-hoo sort of way, but in a empathetic way.

"Will Emma be joining us?" I ask politely. Truth be told, I sincerely hope she doesn't. The woman still rubs me the wrong way.

"No," Mary admits a little sadly. "She's just been so busy lately, you know. Being sheriff."

I didn't know and desperately prayed I never would. Public office has never appealed to me. "That's a pity. How has the job being treating her, so far?"

"Pretty well. There hasn't been too much for her to do, besides paperwork. The last thing was a little hard, but…"She bites her lip. Instantly, she has my attention.

"Oh really?" I ask, sipping my ice tea. Setting the glass back on the table, I smooth out my napkin. "Was that the, uh, thing with the kids? The twins?"

"Yeah," Mary's face slides into an expression of upset. "They were just abandoned. Nobody to look after them. It was lucky Emma found them when she did, you know. And lucky that their dad wanted them, when he saw them?"

"Oh, they found the father?"

"Yes." Mary Margret has relaxed slightly. "At first he didn't want them. But, before Emma took them to Boston, for the children's home, she had car trouble—"

Wait, he was the mechanic? The guy who works in my brothers' shop? I searched for a name….

"—and he saw them and changed his mind." She beams. "Isn't it wonderful?"

I smile back. "Yeah, it is really great. A fairy tale ending. The best sort."

The words make Mary's smile falter a little. I am attentive once more.

"You…don't like fairy tales?" The thought disappoints me. But it isn't a deal-breaker as far as friendship goes. After all, I figure if I can still be only friendly terms with Mr. Gold, who has _blackmailed_ me into sleeping with him, I can put forth the effort to overlook this single trait of Mary Margret's in favour of developing a friendship.

"No, I love them actually." She assures me. "It just reminded me of...funny that you would mention fair tales, because…but it's silly, really."

"What?"

"Henry Mills, the mayor's son, is in my class. He has this idea that everyone in town is a storybook character—"

I quip, "Easy to believe considering the name."

She shakes her head, smiling. "That might have something to do with it. But it's so intricate, this story-world of his. Why, he thinks Ruby is Little Red Riding Hood, and David is Prince Charming, Emma is supposed to be this big savior, and those kids were Hansel and Grettel, and—"

"Who are you?" I ask gently, noting that she had avoided naming her alternative identity.

She pinks, slightly. It is endearing. "Silly, really," She says again softly. "But Henry thinks I'm Snow White."

The thought delights me. Mary Margret is a perfect Snow White! I laugh.

"Oh, but you are! So sweet, and kind."

"Thank you, I think." She breaks into a wide smile. "It is a little silly. They're supposed to be these past lives we're failed to remember. Forgotten, I guess."

I pause. "Wait. If David is your Prince Charming, then why…I think Henry's theory just is a little flawed. David is married."

Mary Margret rolls her eyes. "That is one of the snags. It's a little weird. He says that in the fairy tale-world David and I were together, and that Emma—Emma!—was our daughter, whom we had to send to this world to save us all from impending doom."

I wince. "Wow. That's…"

"Yeah." She finishes for me. "Oh, look, our salads are here!"

The conversation turns to our jobs. After Mary outlines a few of her more hilarious student's antics, the messy meetings and parent-teacher conferences, we turn to my work at the library. I describe working with some of the older patrons, Bella's OCD behavior, etc. She is particularly interested in the binding aspect. Most books are factory made these days. The idea of a hand-bound book strikes people as a mark of luxury. I explain a few basic steps in the process.

"You must be so busy!" Mary Margret exclaims over her pasta. "Between the regular library work, and the binding, and Mr. Gold's shop!"

I halt my fork mere inches from my mouth. Mary's face falls.

"Oh, I'm sorry…." She murmurs. "I shouldn't have. I mean—"

"No, no. It's fine. I mean, it's not exactly as though I'm sneaking out the back door, or anything." But I had. Plenty of times, when it was late. Or after some of our more…adult encounters. "Am I really there that often?"

She nods. "People have…noticed. I didn't mean, Ophelia…he's not so bad. Really. I mean, he helped Emma-"

I snort. "If you can call that help."

Mary Margret gives me a wane smile. "So, are the two of you…close?"

"Ah…" I hesitate. "Sort of."

Understatement of the year. Right here.

"Are you seeing one another?"

"Like, dating?" I blink. This was partially true, I guess. We had technically gone on a date. Once. I think. "Um, yes. Kind of. But, it's…complicated."

She looks at me long and hard. I simply gaze back, unsure of what, exactly, it is she is looking for. After a lengthy pause, she finally says, "Yeah. I can believe that."

**-XXX-**

"Do you believe in past lives?"

I blink at the very un-Mr. Gold-like inquiry. "Like, reincarnation? Hindi stuff? Or the Buddhist tradition?"

The question is weird, coming from him. We have been reading a few select pieces that touch upon the subject, however, such as _She. _I wondered what started this train of thought. In fact, he'd been insisted on story of that nature lately. Curious. I think back to my discussion with Mary Margret earlier in the day. _Lives we've failed to remember…forgotten. _Weird that the idea of past lives would come up in two independent conversations today.

"Not quite."

"Than what do you mean?"

"I merely wish to know if you allow thought of the idea to be possibly. That your first self might still be locked up in a corner of your mind." His eyes hold mine, though they reveal nothing more than a mild curiosity. Nevertheless—there is a bold intensity in the gaze. "An interesting thought."

"I…suppose it is possible." I hesitate. "To be honest, it isn't something I have thought much over."

Mr. Gold nods.

"It would be cool, maybe. But…I don't know how anyone could _know _if they were. Reincarnated, I mean. That's the crux, right?"

He considers. "Proof would be difficult to come by. But does that make it any less true?"

"Perhaps, but not any easier to believe."

Delicately, my partner examines his nails. I wait. Clearly he is still finding the words. This occurs frequently. I secretly wonder if it is his age that contributes to this, or if it is perhaps just one of his natural traits.

"Does that mean you do not behold any notions of its existence?"

"What, past lives?" I blink. "I don't know. It seems silly. Who would I be, any ways?"

He readily has the answer, smiling as he says, "Someone's muse, I am sure."

"Not a queen or a duchess?" I shoot back sarcastically. _"Muse" _isn't exactly the worst thing in the world to be, but still. I feel slighted.

"No," He twirls a lock of my coppery hair. "Most certainly a muse. Courtesan, perhaps. Something of that nature."

So basically a classier verison of a royal hooker. Only worse-courtesans were much more politically involved. They were in relations with nobles, royals, or politicians. It was a risky lifestyle. Their downfall came either with that of their lovers', or when they outlived usefulness. Few made it to wealth and comfort past the age of 40. The idea that I might've been a courtesan in a past life isn't merely upsetting, but a little insulting as well. "Gee, thanks."

"Come now, my dear. You're just that breed of person."

I scowl.

"There is nothing wrong with the lifestyle."

"In your opinion, obviously." I murmur. "Some of us have morals."

At this, he laughs loudly, throwing his head back. I sit, fuming slightly as he chuckles his way through several minutes with the very sight of my face fueling him further. Sometimes, I like him better when he is being a douchebag and malicious. At least then, he is significantly shorter on words. When he quiets, we remain silent for the next several minutes as he runs long pianist fingers through my hair.

"Who was I, do you think?"

The reply doesn't take a moment to consider. "Some sort of lord, or emperor. You had a lot of power, I'm sure. And you were intimidating, probably."

Mr. Gold doesn't respond right away. Instead, he pauses in stroking my hair.

"So, Nero, then?" He finally says lightly, but his tone quivers just enough to bother me. I press closer to him.

"I wouldn't peg you as the violin type."

"Pianist, then?"

"Yes…exactly." I catch his hand in mine.

Again we are quiet. I'm almost ready to drift off when he asks, "What do you wish?"

Startled to awareness, I glance up. "Wish? In what sense? Like, in general or for my future?"

"In general, I suppose." He clarifies.

I think on it. To be honest, I had never dwelled on dreams as a child. My sights had been set on the certain future: graduation, getting a job, getting an apartment, etc. The foolishness of wasted time spent on wishes has never taken me. I simply didn't think of it—I had goals, not dreams. Things that were certain to be seen through. Attainable things. Not frivolous hopes. Nothing like wishes. Goals.

"I guess I would want what makes me happy. Truly happy. No strings attached."

Mr. Gold smiles. "Nothing comes without a price, my love. You ought to know that, by now."

"But those are my conditions," I tell him firmly. "Happiness, without a price. What about you? What do you wish?"

My question stops him short. Now it is his turn to mull over his mind and search the crevasses. To watch his carefully composed features is amusing. The question is clearly a struggle, and I cannot think _why. _He is by far the richest man in town, possibly in the entire state, but even so, he cannot have everything. That's not how the world works.

"Nothing," He finally say simply, opening his hands. "I am not wanting of anything."

I stare. "That's not fair. Everyone has something they desire."

"But I don't. I have what I need. No reason to be greedy. And for the things that I do not yet have…." His eyes are trained onto mine, dark and warm. Like honey. "…they shall find their way. I have faith."

He is not making any sense! Seeing my frustration, Mr. Gold leans forward to kiss my forehead with gentle lips. Unintentionally, I lean into him, though I radiate annoyance. Against my skin I can feel him smile.

"I am so, so happy, dearest. You cannot know. You cannot have any idea. There is nothing more I could want."

The tone sends shivers down my spine. He never releases my gaze.

"I'm glad for you, then. That is good. And for your happiness…what did you have to pay?"

He laughs again, dryly this time. The joke is on him. And luckily, he finds it amusing. "Only everything I've ever worked for, my love."

**-XXX-**

**Yep. It's movin' along. **

**What did you think?**


	27. XXVII

**A bit from Mr. Gold's POV in the following chapters. **

**I have a question: How would you feel if I gave Gold a first name? If the series would ever give us one, I would change mine, naturally. Yes? No? Thoughts?**

**-XXX-**

**_Gold_**

For the next week, Ophelia's behavior was that of a sorely abused cat-distant, wary, sniffing at the hand extended to her before allowing it to stroke her. The reaction was not wholly unanticipated. My questions had left her unsettled. Something struck deep inside, words reverberating around her quiet mind, making it tumultuous as a hurricane. She wasn't sure what to make of it.

I carried on as always, pretending I did not see her small internal struggles. Provided I play the part right, she'll just continue the battle, until she crumbles under the weight of confusion. And once there, there nothing can be done. She must see. It is that simple.

Nevertheless, I wait on edge. This isn't going to simply happen overnight. With Swan here, thing have been set into action, but that doesn't mean Ophelia will simply fall into remembrance. It is going to take work.

And yet...

The dreams are taking their toll. I'm beginning to fear what creature they're turning my dear girl into. Insomnia and excessive prescriptions are good for no one. I had not predicted this reaction. I am forced to wonder just how terrible these nightmares can be, if she is awaking in utter terror night after night. Had I perhaps pushed too far? Her memory could not be so close to the surface as to torture her so, could it?

Like Cathy's ghost upon the window, they seem to be begging for releasing. And poor Ophelia has no idea of the horrors inflicting themselves upon her mind are of her very own creation…..

It was not I who inspired these dreaming. Upon their first coming, I was in a panic-if not me, than who? However, it did not take long to discern that the terrors were of her own making. The conception was all Ophelia's. And the more she pushed them away, the more they plagued her. I wonder if perhaps they might manifest themselves in her waking hours, effectively becoming a prison of her own handiwork. Though they are helping in the recovery, I am forced to watch her spiral. If she doesn't either overcome them or accept them….well, the results are to be awaited with great trepidation on my part.

**-XXX-**

The dream had sparked it. I'd woken up angry, frustrated. Ever since I'd realized who, exactly, the imp reminded me of, there had been underlying resentment whenever I'd wake from one of these weird dreams. It wasn't his fault, naturally, but it was easy to blame him. And he was so willing….

Out of sheer frustration, I had ravaged him on this particular night. Waking in tears, it hadn't taken much for me slither from his protective arms to mount him, raging my mouth against his, then quickly thrust him into myself again and again, feeling so angry and confused and miserable. He did not protest, but nevertheless sensed the edge of discontent haunting me so clearly. I was a terrible tease for the rest of our love-making, running cold hands along his body and getting him riled just enough to bring him up to a frustration that easily match my own until I reversed into his former position and mercilessly touched until I shriek curses (for which he punished me further, with bruising kisses), invoked the name of God, and then, finally, his blessed name. The only name he'd every given me.

It is a long process. Eventually, we fall back onto the pillows, exhausted. My partner is almost breathless. "What was it tonight?"

"The clouds again."

"Again?" He frowns, sitting up. "And the man…the one who chases you."

"Locked." I say dully. "In the cell. Undergrounded. It's dark and dank and he's more than half mad. And cryptic as ever. That's the worst part. Every time, the same conversation, the same words, but it's never clear!"

My head is pounding. Mr. Gold's fingers find mine and tighten.

"You'll find it. You must be having these dreams for a reason. My love, I wonder," He hesitates. "Do you recall what we discussed a few weeks ago?"

I frown. "Buying a new lawn mower?"

Mr. Gold sighs heavily. Clearly the burden of my slow wit is draining on him just as much as the sex. "No, my dear. Reincarnation."

My innards freeze. The words shouldn't have had that profound of an effect on me, yet I croak, "Yes. I remember."

"They say, some people, that dreams are memories. If that is true…then what must your past be?" He suggests quietly. "Ophelia—"

"No." I cut him off briskly, sliding from bed. "That's stupid. I mean, who—who looks like that?"

"Looks like what?" He sits up, watching me cross to the wardrobe for a nightgown.

"He's rather scaly. Short." I say, facing the smooth wood surface of the gigantic piece of furniture. "With this green-gold skin. Huge eyes. Wild eyes. He's…unbalance." With these words, I turn slightly, giving him a profile of sorts. "Laughing madly. He is a demon. Truly."

I look back at him fully. My partner has grown stiff. I watch as his expression turns from intense discomfort to irritation to a carefully placed blank look. All traces of fury vanish, save for the rigidness of his limbs. In the moonlight peeking tentatively through the brocade, I can make out his eyes, which are incredibly alert, given the time of night. I turn my gaze to the drapes. The soft sage-green with its embossed pattern in a gold-bronze glints in the white light. It is an oddly feminine touch to the room of an old bachelor.

Without another word, I turn back to the wardrobe. Once past the doors, I find the second-to-bottom draw and pull it out, briskly removing a folded nightgown and slipping it over my head. It is late. He's tired, I'm tired. This is all nonsensical….

"Can you think of no one?" He whispers from across the room.

Again, I feel myself freeze. Mr. Gold is a very calm man, but he is not a whisper-er. He simply isn't. The words, while apparently basic and clear, carry a lot of weight. Weight I do not understand. Confusion swells within me. I don't answer right away.

"No. I cannot."

"Ophelia…do you hate him?"

This stops me short. "I—I don't know. He frustrates me more than anything. But it isn't real, Mr. Gold. He is a figment of my mind. All of this psychology won't do a thing. I've just got to ignore it."

He laughs abruptly. "Oh, as you did just now? Was that ignoring it? What does he do to you in your dreams, this horrid creature, that makes you want to rid yourself so of his wretched scent? I highly doubt you woke being 'in the mood.'"

I flush. "You don't understand!"

This sobers him. "You're right. I don't. So help me. Do you hate him?"

"Why does that even matter?"

"Ophelia."

My name. That was all. I look to him. He is very intense, staring straight into-

The moon.

_"….Alright, alright my dear. To know what you wish, to find your happiness."_

_"And your price? For their must be a price."_

_In the darkness, his eyes reflect the full and joyous orb. "From the fullest moon to the new moon. The darkest and the bright."_

The string of tangled words-_a memory?-—_makes my head ache with a sudden sharp pain. I shut my eyes tightly. Where had that come from?

"My love…my love…."

It is only then, when I hear his murmurs, that I realize he has hobbled from bed, crossed the room for me. I flinch away from his outstretch fingertips. The only thing that hurts worse than his expression—which is altered from blankness to misery-is the pounding in my head. Distressed, I clutch my skull. But, being a total sneak, Mr. Gold snatches my hand instead. Desperate to pull away, I yank my arm back. He does not yield.

"Ophelia, my love," Cool lips find their way to my forehead, pressing insistently. As though trying to force good feeling onto me. "Please. You know him. You know who he is…who he can be…Ophelia…."

And it continues. The murmurs and whispering of words that don't make a speck of sense, things he must surely think to be gentle comforts. The lips grace my brow bone, eyelids, nose and cheeks. I'm forced to endure it. No amount of struggle could break his hold—not that I tried, anyways. To break his already tedious balance would be cruel; that is, until he was in possession of his cane.

But I can not handle it forever. Finally, when I felt the tears drip from my chin down my neck, heard him say my name one more time—one more time-

I snap myself from his hold.

"Aaaahhh-!"

Mr. Gold tumbles to the carpeted floor with a cry, falling on his side. On his bad leg. His head just misses the corner of the wardrobe. In horror I stand alone, mouth having fallen open. He withers and winces, clearly in pain. It is a deeply unsettling sight. Overlooking the limp, Mr. Gold never appears weak. To see him in such transparent pain is difficult. Yet I can do nothing but stand there, rooted to the floor. I suddenly feel pressure, as though I had been placed in a box and the lid was shutting. About to seal me in.

Without a word, I kneel beside him. Instantly he is reaching for my hands, which I surrender. After gripping them tightly for several moments, he begins to shakily lift off the ground. We move toward bed. I help him in. Once he is properly covered, I sit on the edge of the mattress.

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. I should have expected it long before now."

It isn't a pleasant thought. I watch as he takes up my hand again. He examines the structure, then sets it onto the duvet as though pleased with what he has seen. Fingers entwined with mine. His breath is still heavy.

"I don't understand."

His eyes find mine with a touch of hesitation. "Ophelia, do you hate him?"

This time, I feel compelled to answer.

"No," I whisper into the darkness. Finally answering his much-repeated query. "How could I? Not when he-"

But the words falter there. They are left hanging in the air, waiting. Mr. Gold waits, too, knows that there is more.

I never finish my statement. Instead, I slip from the bed, backing away to the window. When I hear his breathing steady, then slip into a deep rhythm, I leave the room. It doesn't take much time to dress. My purse is downstairs, sitting on the small white bench in the foyer. Near the hat rack, and row of silver hooks used to hang frequently-used rain coats. My key ring lays nestled in the bottom.

Since he doesn't come out when I start the car, I assume he's still asleep. And when he doesn't call three hours later, I feel content enough to nap in the back seat after parking down a secluded dirt road just over fifteen miles away. Tomorrow, I'm leaving. New York sounds like a fresh start. Or maybe even Philadelphia. Perhaps I could drive down to Baltimore...

These thoughts comfort me just enough to fall into a light, fitful sleep.

**-XXX-**

**Skin Deep's promo has left me very worried. Incorporating that will be hard, though I've managed something in chapter 31 that ought to translate over. Depending on how the episode plays out, it shouldn't be too hard to keep with the canon. I mean, in reincartation can happen once, it can happen again, right? **

**Hint, hint. **


	28. XXVIII

**We get a sneak into Mr. Gold's POV several times in this chapter.**

**Amazing response, once again! Love review! For those of you who have a facebook, be sure to check out the OUAT Fan Community. It's filled with fellow fans.**

**On another note, please read my Valentine's Day companion one-shot to To Wish, Bloodied Lips and a Scarlet Smile, which is a dark re-loaded version of chapter 1. **

**-XXX-**

**_Gold_**

The morning comes, swift and merciless. How odd it is, waking without her at my side. Of course, I'd suspected she'd leave in the night. In her anger, Ophelia has never been one to fully comfront, not on this level of rage. She runs. Runs, without a doubt, to her brother.

After breakfast, I call the library. In brisk tones, I inform Isabella of Ms. Espen's absence for the day. She is ill. The librarian accepts this without comment, just a polite, _"Yes, thank you, sir." _ Infintely pleased with the acceptable reaction, I leave for work. Earlier than usual. Someone isn't here to slow me down. The thought causes me to smile fondly to no one.

As always, the shop is slow. It is extremely fortunate Regina figured in renters into my estate, as well as carefully planned investments. The shop brings in little. This is one thing, at least that Regina did not fail in in regards to our arrangement. Several other conditions-namely, the one involving a certain bookbinder's daughter-had not been met. I mull this over as the day passes. My only patron is a nervous and jittery Dr. Hopper, in to pay the rent on his offer. I smile graciously as the check is passed iver the glass jewelry counter. The day drags on till 6 o'clock, when I lock up the shope and return home. Without the headlights of Ophelia's Volvo, simling at me from the rearview window, the ride strikes me as being significantly...lacking.

**-XXX-**

I don't even get a mile within the county limit.

My car abruptly decides it doesn't want to go any further. I am left abandoned on another long, winding gravel road just north of town. My cell has no bars, and Storybrook is roughly five miles away. Not too far. But I'm still not ready to be found. I need to think. I could probably walk to Milo, the next nearest town about twelve miles away, by late afternoon. From there—and with the help of Mr. Gold's Platinum Express card-I could easily find transportation to an airport or bus station. Or, maybe even purchase a crappier car.

However, I choose to instead go into the woods. I need time to consider my options. After all, I'm still not even sure why I _left_. It just….felt like the thing to do. Now I'm having second doubts.

Especially when I see sinister clouds rolling on the horizon. The bleak title wave gives me moment of apprehension. Hadn't I heard the weather man mention something about a storm last night, on the radio?

Even so, I shouldn't be out here that long.

"Come on, feet." I sigh. "Let's get walking."

**-XXX-**

**_Gold_**

Her car isn't in the drive, nor does it rest in the garage. This doesn't bother me in the least. A worried Molly greets me in the foyer, wringing her hands. I am quickly attentive.

"Christopher Espen called just an hour ago. He said he wants to speak with Ophelia about Jennifer's birthday next week. But her cell phone isn't picking up any calls."

I frown. "She's been with him all day, surely he could have spoken with her then? And she isn't even home, why-"

Molly bites her lip. "That's just it, sir. She _hasn't _been with him all day. He hasn't seen her since Tuesday, when they had lunch. And he called the library as well—-I told him she was off for the day, but he said she might very well come in anyways-they've not heard from her either."

"Has she been home?"

"No, sir. I've been here all day, there hasn't been a person here besides the mailman."

She could not have left. No one leaves Storybrook. Ever. But then, where might she have gone?

I don't think. Automatically, I find myself pulling out my cell phone, dialing the number, putting the receiver to my ear, then waiting as it rings…no, it goes straight to voicemail.

_"It's Ophelia! I'm sorry I have missed your call, please leave your name, the time of your call, and number after the _*beep.* _Thanks!"_

I dial again.

_"It's Ophelia! I'm sorry I have missed your call…."_

Then I dial again.

And again.

And again.

Until finally I leave a short message. "I am home waiting for you. If you do not contact me by nine o'clock this evening, I shall call the sheriff and demand a search party be gathered to find you."

Molly looks even more frightened with this new factor. "Mr. Gold, you cannot be serious." She says when I hang up calmly. "Ophelia won't respond."

"She's not the kind to go missing. She'll call." I promise. "Besides, if word of our connection comes out, when she might've prevented it…she will call."

That was one of my biggest securities- -Ophelia's fearfulness of the community's reaction. I've not had to say anything. She takes so many precautions on her own. If I were to ruin this secrecy, she would, as Christopher might put it, _"freak." _

But I think Molly and I both know I'm saying this to easy myself, rather than stating legitimate fact. Molly nods, regardless, accepting my answer as cold comfort.

"Dinner at seven, please, Molly." I say, limping toward the study. It has been a long time since I've dined alone.

**-XXX-**

It has been _months_ since I have felt the rain on my skin. Truly months. Which is weird. I live in Maine. Mainians feel rain all the time; it's almost constantly pouring. But today, this afternoon, the sensation feels….new. But today, here, on my frozen skin I can feel each and every crystal drop pounding into me. I can hear the soft splatters. Smell the freshness.

Gasping in lungfuls of damp air. Fresh. Cold. The intake hurts my chest, but that doesn't stop me. A few feet more. There.

I sit. Looking up at the leaves, feeling wetness of my face. I've been here before, or near here. It's hard to tell; so many parts of the forest look alike. Was it here that I came to think over our arrangement, the morn after he kissed me? Here? I sat beside a log…near some ferns….

My head feels light. But not in a lovely way, more like a "I'm-about-to-pass-out" sort of way. I feel it tilt. Water slides into my ear. Oh, that's not comfortable. How terribly cold.

The wind picks up. My damp hair floats up. A few strands blur my vision. But I don't bother in brushing them away. Anyways, my arms feel weighted. Horridly so. Sluggishly, I shift my body. Everything feels…heavy. I blink once, twice. How tired I'm becoming….I didn't get much sleep last night, after all, it couldn't hurt to….

**As always, thanks for reading and please review! **


	29. XXIX

**All of this is in Gold's POV. Please give me a few reviews, after yesterday, I could use 'em. Enjoy, please. **

**-XXX-**

By nine, the storm forecasters predicted is upon us. Molly has returned home for the evening, reluctantly. My assurances are useless for both of us, but she has a husband and children waiting on her. I shall be fine alone. She leaves with great hesitation, making me promise to call should anything occur, or if Ophelia returns. The promise is given, though I feel great doubt as to whether I shall need to honor it. Something gives me the feeling that my girl isn't particularly keen on coming home.

Home. I'd done everything in my power to give her comfort. A private room. A library. Home cooked meals, and the run of the kitchen. A lavish batroom. Space, yet a proximity to me to lend toward companionship, should she need it. For a time, after that night, in my shop, I thought perhaps we might be able to reconcil. That maybe we could have a speck of happiness in a world specifically design to go against all formation of joy. She seemed content (though perhaps unaware of it herself), nevertheless, there were moments. If I could have her without a dirty deal, without the blackmail, and the pressure, oh that I would. But I'm not allowed that opportunity, not with the community to frown upon us, so I took what I could. I manipulated, freely, bringing her to my will.

Thick sheets pelt the house and grounds. I am hesitant in picking up the phone, until a crash of lightening brings about a rush of motivation. Ophelia could be out there, in this. I dial the number with quivering fingers.

"Christopher, I need a favour of you…it involves your sister…."

**-XXX-**

"Okay, I'll be headed north, toward the river. I'd appreciate a group of twelve for that-the river will be tough. I want eight of you toward the west, looking over that bluff. Another eight to the east, and the rest of you stay in town by your phones. Keep your cells and radios on. Does everybody have my number? Okay, good. Remember, your flash lights are going to be very helpful in this search. Keep. Them. On. And stay observant. The smallest thing—a broken branch, some messed up leaves, can give you a trail. So keep your eyes open. For Ophelia's sake."

A large crowd had turned out outside of city hall. Ophelia Espen might be a shy girl, but she is well-loved. Something akin to sorrow rises in my throat. I watch the Sheriff step off of the porch before limping over to meet her. The crowd has mildly dispersed—or, at least, the group around me has quickly moved. I can see fear quivering in their eyes and for once it doesn't give me strength, rather, reminds me of just how far I've fallen from anyone's graces. Especially Ophelia's.

I am angry; she has left, stupidly, as a child runs away from their problems. I am more than angry. I am bubbling with rage, ready to tear this microscopic town apart to find her. My promise isn't being kept. She isn't letting me. And here, I had thought we'd come so far, assumed we were safe. Regina had lost. I had my happy ending.

But, apparently, Ophelia had not.

"Emma," I call. Cursing my cane, my leg, myself, I drag myself forward. "Emma, Ms. Swan."

She finally stops, spinning the heels of her boots to come nose-tip to nose-tip with me. She isn't any happier than I. "I am just a little busy, Gold. What do you want?"

I ignore her tone. Sneering, I say, "I need to speak to you in your office."

She rolls her eyes, but complies. When we enter her small office, I take a seat. This ignore her. I can see that she is itching to leave and begin her search. Anger radiates off of her, but I again ignore this to focus on the matter at hand.

"Ophelia Espen is under my protection. I demand full coverage of the search for her." I settle back and wait for her reaction.

As expected, Emma's jaw sets. "Why? How is she under your protection? Does that just mean she owes you money?"

The thought infuriates me further. "Of course not. It is nothing of that nature. She isn't any sort of dollar sign to me, Ms. Swan." I spit out the words. All traces of a calm demeanor have disappeared. "Disgusting that you would think such a thing of me."

"You made me hunt down a young woman for her baby a few months ago. I honestly don't think anything is beneath that." She points out.

"A different matter entirely." I growl.

Emma puts her hands on her hips. "Alright, then. So why is Ophelia Espen so important? What about her makes her such a priority to you?"

Gritting my teeth, I look to the floor. If she knew, my love would surely be quite discontent with what I am about to do. However, I highly doubt her colourful language and fists could match my level of emotion at the moment. So, without another consideration, I make the decision. May she damn me for it.

"Ms. Espen and I are romantically engaged." I tell Emma blandly. "We've been seeing each since—well, less than a month after you arrived in Storybrook. She moved in with me perhaps two, three month ago. We had a disagreement- - -we quarreled. Then she disappeared. Ran away. I didn't know until this morning. I assumed she went to her brother's house to blow off some steam, settle down. But then she didn't come home this evening."

"And you had Chris call it in."

I straight myself. "She would be so upset, if anyone were to know. I am not a favourite of the community, Ms. Swan. It is easy to conceive how the town—people who have known and loved her her entire life—could turn on her with the knowledge of our relationship. Between our age difference, and my reputation…. For her sake, I demanded that we keep our relations low-key. Surely you can comprehend."

Emma has propped herself against the metal desk, hands in pockets. Her eyes are narrowed, head tilted, but she is listening. I frevently pray her empathetic sensiblities will be appealed to. I desperately need her aid.

"This isn't the first case of a young woman running from you, Mr. Gold." She says finally. "And you've kept vital facts from me before. But I don't really understand what you're asking for. Do you want to join the search?"

Her eyes trail to my leg, the twisted and weak limb hidden by black pinstripes. I feel a flush of embarrassment and shame. If I were a true man, stronger-

The thought is cast aside. It is impossible.

"No," I say coolly. "I merely wish to stay informed. The moment she is found, the very second…I would greatly appreciate a call. Ms. Swan, you cannot know how much this means to me. She is…she is….my Ophelia. I need to know that she is safe. Please."

Crystalline eyes match my gaze. "Mr. Gold, I will put every bit of myself into this search. I will find her, one way or another. But you might have to face the reality that she might be gone. I mean, we couldn't find her car. She could be in Boston by now."

But I know better. She cannot leave… ever.

We are interrupted by a knock at the door. "Sheriff Swan, the teams have been divided."

Chris stands in the doorway, a day's worth of stubble lining his jaw. The boy looks weary, but determined. His other siblings have been dispersed throughout the search teams. Jennifer leans in from behind him, her eyes narrowing upon the sight of me. With a reed of sleek dark hair falling from a high ponytail, cool, dark brown eyes, and a tall bone structure, she is a different creature from her younger sister. I incline my head. Jennifer doesn't respond. But Chris spots me and nods back, then turns to Emma.

"Thank you, Chris. Tell them I'll be a minute yet. The east and west teams can go ahead."

He nods eagerly. "Yes ma'am."

The young sheriff visibly winces at the title. I cannot help but smirk.

With nothing left to say, I stand to leave. Leaning heavily on my cane, I start for the door. The reminder of my limp makes the leg feel heavier. Like lead. Each step is a stuggle. I forget my, sometimes, about my injury. So, I do my best to hurry from the office. But the young sheriff stops me.

"I'm not doing this for you." She tells me fiercely. "I'm doing this for her and no one else. And when we find her—then we'll find out just how this _'relationship_' between the two of you works out. She won't be leaving my custody until we are clear on where she stands on this."

I bow my head. This is all I could hope for.

**-XXX-**

**Yep, that's right. Another cliff-hanger. **

**I'm not going to update until Wed, because I've only gotten to chapter 33 so far, and I want to be at least 5 chapters ahead. **

**The beginning of this chapter taking place during that mega-storms in 7:15, by the way. Forgot to mention that. Sorry to leave you hanging again, but I've got to catch up!**

**I've got a show opening in two weeks, so updates might be scattered. Just letting you know. The time I spent writing and not updating now will result in some-what timely-er posts then, so please don't complain too heavily. I've gotten a lot of anon reviews lately asking when updates will be. I'm sorry, but at this rate they're going to come when they come. Being set off schedule by the Super Bowl doesn't help much either, as now I'm behind schedule. **

**For anon reviewers w/o an account: If you're in the FB group, and leave a posted question for "Dani," I will answer any questions or comments as quickly as possible to spare you a wait.**


	30. XXX

**Back to Ophelia's POV!**

**-XXX-**

The voice comes from behind me, clear and strong. We're in the forest again. I can hear the leaves flutter in the cool evening air. Their delicious scent fills my nose. I inhale.

"You need to wake up."

Never have I heard him so firm before. It is as though all this time I have been walking on a bed of jell-o, but now I can feel the ground—-solid, hard, good-rising up to meet my feet. The sheer power under his tone is surprising. I close my eyes, waiting as my hair whips around my face and neck, drifting in the air. In this dream it is longer, passed my shoulder blades. Always. And speaking of my shoulder blades, there is warm skin rubbing against them...

From behind me, I can feel him shift. "You must wake."

"Why do I come here," I ask abruptly. "In my sleep? What causes my dreams to come to this place? And the prison, in the rock? I don't know these places. I've never seen them before, except when I sleep."

He is quiet. "I do not know."

"Liar."

The accusation is not rebutted. He is lying, but is either too tired or too distracted to debate with me. The argument isn't one I am seeking, either. So I let him change the subject without comment.

After several seconds, I feel rough skin against my neck. I press into his touch, hoping that perhaps just a little sweetness might encourage him to speak. I'll take anything now. Every sentence, every syllable holds a clue. I know it. He occupies himself for several minutes, running his fingertips against the curve of my spine, letting them dance up into my hair, then back to my shoulder, the blades, then further. It's nearly seductive. But closer to comforting. Almost sweet. The thought startles me. He has never been _sweet _before. _Sweet _probably isn't even a word in his vocabulary.

"Please, my lovely, try to rouse yourself. It is important."

I turn to look at him. He looms above me, eyes heavily shadowed. In this light (or lack thereof), he resembles Mr. Gold. The high cheekbones. Dark eyes. Thin, pursed lips. I shiver. The trees surrounding us sway, as though attempting to crowd in and hear our soft whispers. They are listening, patiently waiting for our next words.

"Why, when I am so content here? No man-eating clouds. No prison. No tricky shopkeepers. Or douchebaggy Scots with creepy eyes. Nothing but fresh air and trees and-"

"You must."

I pout. He gives me a look that clearly expresses "_my-how-very-unbecoming-that-is-on-you." _Again I am reminded of Mr. Gold. My—lover? Partner? What name would one give the man who has blackmailed and seduced (with books, no less) them into a tumultuous relationship? I do not think as single title could do him justice. He may be a man of few words, but it takes many to describe him. Ironic?

Perhaps.

"I do _not_ want to wake up yet."

"Ophelia."

It is enough to remind me. Pressing my palm to the hollow flesh of his pebbled cheek, I rest my head against his chest, closing my eyes, and begin counting. My eyelids are sealed tightly. When I open them, I'm in a whole new darkness.

**-XXX-**

I blink. There is a haze of dark green, grey, and some funny yellow-y colour before me. And then, as though there is cotton stuffed in my ears, I hear a muffled series of cries that may or may not be my name. _"Offeeel-uh." _I wince. Blinking again, my vision clears by a fraction. Things in the distance (say, less than three feet) are virtually blobs of colour. They twitch and move in my line of vision. I blink again, trying so hard to clear my eyes. My breath pushes out in slow puff. Shift my head. Skull pounding. But now I can see a pair of worried blue-green eyes- - -"_Mary Margret?"- - -_ along with a sweep of blonde hair.

Emma Swan kneels before me on the damp forest floor. A flashlight rests on the ground by her knees. She's speaking into a walkie-talkie. The crackling prevents me from really hearing much. I struggle to sit up on my elbows, but she pushes me back down with a panicked expression. Then she's back to talking quickly into the receiver.

It's then that I notice the small gathering of men and women. Doctor Hopper, Mary Margret, among others. They've kept their distance, clustering together. Mary bites her lip, her arms crossed, pale face looking even more peaked.

"This is Sheriff Swan, requesting an ambulance for the trail outside of Sagely Ridge. Ms. Espen has been found. Call all search units back to City Hall. Repeating, Ms. Espen has been found."

I place a hand on my forehead. It's still a little heavy. "I've been lost?"

She puts down her radio to whip out a cell from her back pocket. "For nearly a day and a half. Didn't you hear about the huge storm? Why are you out here, anyways?"

Apparently, this was a rhetorical question, or either she simply didn't want an answer right now, as she flipped open the phone and dialed a number off of a slip of white crumpled paper. Waiting for the other line to ring, she glanced upward to the iron-coloured sky, obviously annoyed. Whether it was having been so bothered over the efforts of find me, or the prospect of speaking to the person on the other line, that made her irritated I couldn't tell.

"We've found her. She was sleeping, just off one of the hiking trails. Against a tree." Emma pauses. "No, she seems to be okay. A little cold. Disoriented. Perhaps dehydrated. Yeah, I was planning on getting her there. I am the sheriff- - -it was the first thing I did, before I calling you. I know how to do my job, thanks."

She hangs up, emitting a frustated sigh before turning back to me. "We're waiting for the ambulance. We're going to check you in, and they're probably going to keep you over night. I'll take your report tomorrow- - -"

"Who was that just now on the phone?" I cut across her.

Emma stops, hesitating. "I…it was the…. Someone worried about your well being."

I sink back. "I think I know."

Examining me for a moment, the young sheriff tucks away her cell. "I'm sorry. He made me promise I would contact him."

I don't question what else he may have told her. Whatever she might think of us doesn't matter. I'm honestly too tired to care. So, I sigh.

"Yeah. He would."

The EMTs arrive shortly later. I am given a thorough examination, declared dehydrated, exhausted, and a number of other useless terms before being carried to the ambulance on an extremely uncomfortable stretcher. A thick orange woolly blanket has been swaddled around me, as tight as it is ugly. The small crowd of searcher applauds as I am loaded into the back. Embarrassed, I keep my eyes on my lap. I've done nothing with besides getting lost, there is not need for a fuss. Mary Margret comes with me, on to the ambulance, clutching my hand (once she gets it out of the dumb blanket). Emma tells me, before the doors shut, that Chris was with another group.

"He'll meet us at the hospital," She explains. Mary Margret smiles, but I can only nod. Of course, my _brother_ could not bother to demand that he be called once I am found. Neither, apparently, could my other siblings. It's nice to know I am so loved.

On the ride, I drift off. I wake briefly when being unloaded, and then again when transferred to a proper bed. But I'm not willing to fully wake, not yet. I feel the swift, sharp prick of a needle, blink away near-blinding florecent lights, squirm against the stiff mattress. Then, when they lights disappear, I drift out entirely into an almost-dreamless sleep.

Well, I say _"almost dreamless." _

**-XXX-**

**Sooooo...what do you think? I updated early because of such a great response. And I was bored. I ought to be applying for scholarships. Or writing chapter 35, but I'm seriously lost without a new episode. **

**Anyone else pumped for "Skin Deep?" I know I am. I keep watching the promo. So, so good. **

**Again, I encourage all of you to join the FB group. Also, I'd like to challenge my readers to write their own pieces-one shot, maybe?-because goodness knows there isn't enough good Gold/Rumpel fiction out there. **

**Please review! Questions, comments, concerns, etc. Please and thanks!**

**Edit: I shall be updating late/early Saturday, or early Sunday, before "Skin Deep."**


	31. XXXI

**Updating a little early. I figured I made you wait 4 days...might as well. Soooooooo very, very excited about tomorrow's episode. **

**As always, thank you for the support, and the reviews! Close to 300-which is the best I've ever done! Thank you so much! Don't be afraid to ask questions, comment, or just drop me a line. I'll answer as soon as possible. **

**-XXX-**

My nose brushes warm, smooth leather. Snuggling closer, I curl into a tighter ball, sighing lightly. Warm, comfortable, and simply happy, this is the way to sleep. This pillow is absolutely glorious-

And it's also moving up and down at a constant rate. As one's chest does with breathing. I sit stock-up straight. When I see the pair of lazy, wide-pupil eyes gazing back, amused, I utter a small scream.

The imp lounges backwards against the trunk of an upright pine. I myself have been resting between his legs, head on his hallow chest. Crossing my arms, I sit back, still incircled in his limbs. He smiles carelessly, almost leering. This is a change from the gentler creature I encountered….was it last night? How long has it been? The question passes quickly from my mind-I have much bigger fish to fry.

"Where….?"

"Forest clearing," He informs me promptly. "You seemed to like it."

"Yes," I pause. "I did. What happened. I was here, and you were telling me to leave-"

"I was telling you to _wake." _He frowns. "Not leave. Never leave."

"You're torturing me."

He flashes a quick smile. "I try dearly not to, my love. And yes, I was telling you to wake. You needed to. Don't you remember? Where you went, after?"

Slowly, I consider. "No," I finally say. "Not a clue."

"You were found."

"I was lost."

He snorts. It is a far from pleasant sound, but I let it pass, choosing to focus on his words. "Very lost, my dear. You probably didn't even realize it at the time, I should think. Silly thing, aren't you?"

This is said gently. A trace of the softer creature. He's still rough, still crackling and cackling. But this fresh side has me taken aback. I am not entirely sure how to respond. We've always kept a fast and furious banter during these late-night visits. Things have run snappily. Does that still stand?

"What is this?" I ask. "A world of my creation? Did I do this? Or…something else? Am I cursed, or something."

He surprises me by tossing his head back and laughing loudly. And then-

"We're all cursed." He says, addressing the "_cursed_" comment. "Everyone of us. You, your family, your friends…Mary Margret, David, Miss Boyd, the Zimmer children, Ruby, Mr. Clark Isabelle, Regina, Mr. Archie Hooper, Sidney, Leroy, Marco…Mr. Gold."

It strikes me as weird. He knows all these names. The names of people that make up my world.

"What do you mean? Cursed how?"

But he doesn't respond. Instead, he claims my lips, pressing insistently. I accept the kiss, allowing it to happen without protest. It's just a dream. Just a dream.

**-XXX-**

I feel the hand, tight and hot on mine, before my eyes open. Awake, but not quite. Frowning, I roll toward my held hand, curling into myself. There is a soft sound. It is not my own.

My eyes open against my own will. Blinking, I observe the painfully white walls, the pastel curtain dividing the room, the shiny floor tiles, the bland window with its bland scenery outside. There is a big wooden door, a old TV mounted from the ceiling. From outside the room, I can hear the squeaking of sneakers, wheels rolling down the hall, the murmur of distant voices. The standard sound for one place. A hospital room. A hospital….

Right. The forest. Running away. After I pushed Mr. Gold. After we argued. When I left in the night.

When my gaze sweeps toward the left side of the room, he shifts in his seat. Nervously. Instead of looking at him, I examine our combined hands. His are paler, almost thinner-looking than before. To my surprise, a thick silver band sits on his wedding finger. This is new. He didn't wear jewelry often. And the cuff around is wrist isn't that of a suit, but of a simple white dress shirt and a quiet green sweater. This in itself stuns me.

"Ophelia."

My name. That is all. He says nothing else.

Daring to look up, I finally meet his eyes. They are dark, solidly keeping focus. He runs one thumb against my knuckles. I bit my lip. With nothing else to greet him with- - -I mean, it's not like _"Hey, great job of pissing me off, then sending the entire county after me and blowing our cover!" _is appropriate-—so, I just return his basic offering. His name.

"Mr. Gold."

"A little more equal, now, aren't we?" He smile the barest smile. "Name for a name? That's only fair."

The thought is pleasing. I cuddle deeper into the pillows. Everything feels so fuzzy...and heavy. Twisting on my side to face him more fully, I'm prevented; my arm gets a twinge of pain with this- - -IVs apparently don't like jostled much. I wince, then open my eyes to find my partner hovering. I reassure him with a small smile. "It's fine. Just messed the IV up a bit."

"Are you tired?"

"A little." I admit. "But I've slept so much-"

"Eight hours. Not including the time spent in the forest. We're still uncertain as to that. They found your car a little after the search began." He tells me. "Why did you abandon it?"

Fiddling with the hem of the thread-bare pastel blanket, I cringe. Telling him my plans to leave Storybrook will not go over well, I'm sure. But, seeing as I've been unconscious for roughly….eighteen hours?...I haven't had time to come up with any other sort of excuse. Heck, I didn't think I would be seeing him again, that I would need an excuse. I finally glance up, seeing that he has been waiting expectantly. With a sigh, I launch into a brief explanation.

"It broke down, as I was driving out. I was going to walk to Milo, to find a bus or something. But apparently, I got lost."

Mr. Gold frowns slightly. "A bus to…where?"

I cannot bear to look at him. "I hadn't figure that out yet."

A long moment of silence overtakes us. Coward that I am, my head remains bowed. He is quiet for such a long time, I fear that maybe he's left, and I simply missed it. But then he speaks. Very, very softly.

"I see."

Instinctually, my hand lunges to find his. "Please, don't be upset with me. I was angry, so confused, and these dreams-"

He accepts my hold coldly. "I do not wish to argue this right now; you are exhausted. Still, my dear, your dreams? How long are you going to blame them?"

"You don't understand. They're….eating me up, inside."

"Ophelia. You need some help." Mr. Gold lowers his face next to mine. "We'll discuss this later, but as for now, you need to sleep." Without another word, he moves to the nurse's call button. It blinks red when he taps it. Ominously red. "Tomorrow, you're going home. We'll talk over the next several days. As for now…"

The nurse arrives, cutting him off. A vial of something clear is injected into mine IV bag. I watch the transparent fluid drip steadily from the bag, trickling down the tube, then disappear into the plastic tape strapped to my arm. Before long, my eyelids are fluttering. Sleep again creeps to the edge of my mind. I fight myself, attempting to retain consciousness and basic motor skill. I feel heavy again. Mr. Gold stands back as the nurse bustles around, his eyes shadowed. She leaves with the promise of checking in on me further in the night. I reach out before overtaken by the drugs. My limbs are like lead. He approaches, accepting my hand. Though vastly unhappy with me, his grip is gentle and his eyes, if not soft, are impassive.

"You won't have any dreams."

I breathe a slight sound of relief. But that wasn't what was niggling my mind. "My family. Where are they?"

His lips purse. "Christopher was here. The others, once they knew you were not in any mortal danger, left."

This should bother me. But I'm just clinging to consciousness. "Okay. How did you manage to stay with me…to…" I find a clock. "Two twenty-eight a.m.?"

Mr. Gold chuckles. "I know people, my love. And that's enough."


	32. XXXII

**OKAY! DO NOT READ ANY OF THE FOLLOWING BOLD TEXT IF YOU WISH TO AVOID SPOILERS FOR SKIN DEEP. **

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**So, Skin Deep was amazing, was it not? However, it messed somethings up...**

**From maybe about chapter 35 things will stop being entirely canon. I will try to keep them relatively close to the show, but anything in regards to Belle will be mostly out the window. However, she will still crop up. Luckily, the writers did not put her anywhere near the start of the curse and end of Storybook land's demise-therefore, think of her as the precursor to Ophelia. Belle happened first, "died," then Ophelia came along. Simple enough?**

**We'll get a flash of Belle in this chapter. But not much. **

**-XXX-**

Before we're allowed to leave the hospital, Ms. Swan insists on seeing me, privately. Mr. Gold stanchly refuses. He demands that he be present for the visit. I don't particularly care either way, though it unsettles me that he is so determined to remain by my side. I mean, it's only Emma. What can she do to me? She probably just wants a report of what went down. I mean, it's her job.

She arrives around ten. By then I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a purple silk dress. It's got a fitted waist, silver buttons, a pinafore sleeves, Watteau pleating in the back, and silver-spun silk along the collar. It isn't remotely familiar, though Mr. Gold insists that it is from my wardrobe. Which confirms my suspicion that he has been secretly purchasing me clothing. Not that I mind. This is cute. In a mature sort of house-wife-y way. I brush back my hair behind my shoulders, worrying my ring- - -a birthday gift from Chris, a simple gold band set with a tiny ruby- - -a when she enters. Mr. Gold sits imperviously in the corner, fingers tapping the cheap wooden arm of the chair.

"Ophelia." Her greeting isn't warm, but kindness does tinge her tone. I do my best to smile. After all, she saved my life. "I'm here to just ask you a couple of questions. Would that be okay?"

Did I have a choice? Instinctually, I turn to my partner, but Emma quickly reclaims my attention. Her tone shifts seriously. "No, don't ask him. This is between us. I need to know- - -are you living with Mr. Gold?"

The question causes me to be taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Are you living with Mr. Gold?"

"Um, yeah. We're…together."

"And is it a consensual arrangement?"

Is it? I suppose now, but a few weeks ago, I would've answered differently. For a long moment, I hesitate. From the corner, I can feel the pawnbroker grow tense.

"Yeah. Of course. I mean, he's my…." But I can't get the word out. _"Boyfriend" _just doesn't cover it. I finally look to him. His nails are digging into the soft wood of the chair. His expression is carefully bland and vague, but I can see intense anxiety radiating from his shoulders. "Of course it's consensual."

Emma stares between the two of us. No one speaks. I cross and uncross my legs, still fiddling with my ring. Finally, she nods. "Okay. Well, that's great. I wish the two of you well."

"Thank you, Ms. Swan." Mr. Gold rises. "You've done your job well, though we are no longer in need of your services."

She bows her head, then makes her exit. I hold my breath. He rounds on me, eyebrows raised. But he says nothing besides a curt instruction to put on my jacket. We're leaving.

**-XXX-**

"You're not working in the library anymore."

Startled, I look up from my reading. I've been home for just over two days. Mr. Gold has kept me confined to the house, particularly the library. The imprisonment has been painful enough, but his distance hasn't been any pleasure either. He hasn't touched me. We speak only when necessary. He's avoid me throughout the day, then eats a stiff and sulky dinner with me. I've slunk off to my room every night, to a lonely and cold bed.

"What?"

"I said, you are resigning from your post. These dreams are stress enough. Working cannot bring you to a cure."

"You cannot dictate whether I work or not. I _like_ my job." And I love my independence even more.

"It is not up for debate."

"So, what am I supposed to do? Stay here, all day?" I gesture to the room, anger filling my chest. My heart pounds wildly.

"If that suits you. You can still do minor things in the shop."

With the word _"minor," _I feel myself snap inside. My heart feels like bursting.

"No. That was one piece of my life outside of here, away from you!" I rise from my seat. "Working in the shop, coming home, spending almost every_ waking minute _with _you….! _That isn't healthy, but any means. I need more space!"

This only agitates him. My entire point is lost. Clearly frustrated, Mr. Gold tightens his tie, smoothing down the patterned silk when he is finished.

"Once you have shown you can work past these dreams, you may return to your former work. As for now…." He sobers slightly. "You cannot see for yourself what these night terrors are doing to your very character."

I am livid. "You cannot do this. My life, remember?"

"Your life," He agrees. "Which I am trying to improve. Ophelia, please see reason. I will allow you to volunteer at the library, with a reduced workload, and a flexible schedule. They can get along without you."

True enough, but that does not prevent my heart from sinking. I love my job, my co-workers, the old people who frequent our shelves. It has come to be a solid, reliable highlight, something I've grown to deeply appreciate over the last several months. It is almost as though he is trying to isolate me any way he can- - -my brother, my house, and now my job, all gone. Isolation.

**-XXX-**

Next Monday, I find myself seated in Mr. Gold's very expensive car, on the way to the shop. Soft folk music plays over the radio. It feels out of place in this fine leather interior. But I am not about to switch stations. I barely feel comfortable in these seats. I dread the coming months. If things are going to be this awkward every morn how can anything be improved between us? I know he is angry. He has that right. But this cannot continue.

Just before we exit the woods, I feel the need to voice a question I'd held in for quite some time.

"What is this?"

He is quiet. "It is a car."

"No," I say impatiently. "This…relationship. Where is it going? What is it going to become?"

This stops him short. But not for long. Eyes on the road, he says calmly, "This is us."

I wait for the rest, drumming my fingers against the armrest. It doesn't appear forthcoming.

"Is that it?" My tone is terse. Things have been, needless to say, tense around the Gold household. I've been doing my very best to keep a steady distance from Mr. Gold, sleeping during the daylight hours, and remaining in my room in the evenings to read, or sleep more. Sleep, I'd found, was easiest when it was drug-induced. The pills prescribed by my doctor following my forest-mishap thrust me into deep REMs. Gold had readily informed my doctor of my troubled sleep patterns. Irritated with my partner's forwardness, I'd grudgingly accepted the pills. Then I began taking them liberally.

"Does there need to be more? Must we label every interaction, my love?"

"No," I huff childishly. "I would prefer this one be a little more defined. Before, this was merely blackmail-" _Before _being an unspecific point. I cannot name when or where we created the _after. _"-now things are different."

He doesn't even waste his time in denying the accusation, but clearly is uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat. We've almost reached the square. Mr. Gold turns up the ratio. Apparently, he does not feel inclined to further our discussion. The car slides into his usual space behind the store. After parking, Mr. Gold retrieves his cane from the backseat. I follow him inside, where I set up my small workstation. And thus begins my first day

The first of many, many days, I'm afraid.

**-XXX-**

The moment I come into awareness, I realize that this dream is different. Far, far different from the others. The entire tone is brighter, blurry. As if I were watching the scene from a frosted window. Or a foggy pane of glass. It's disconcerting. I blink several times. But my vision never clears. Until a dark figure shifts in the corner.

It's him. My imp. He's standing taller. All traces of lines, or age, have disappeared from his unnatural features. He looks- - -happy? How very unusual. I realize that the range of his typical emotions (or, at the very least, the ones displayed before me) go from _wicked _to _grouchy_ to_ intimidating_. Things that do not typically qualify as emotions on a normal person.

Unsettled, I try to move forward, however I am prevented. My field of vision shifts, but not my form. Am I not corporal?

Another figure appears. This one is unfamiliar. With thick sheets of wavy brown hair, startling kind eyes, and ivory skin, the woman is a picture. She dances across the room, the long skirt of her blue dress swaying, approaching my imp tentatively. His features appear just as nervous. When the woman stops before him, a rose is pulled from behind his back. Scarlet, splendid, with dewdrops lining the silky petals and burgundy thorns, it looks unbearably fresh. The perfect flower is offered to the girl.

"For you, Belle, if you will have it."

She smiles, wide and soft, accepting the glorious specimen of flora. Lifting it to her nose, she inhales. Then, still smiling, she drift away to find a vase.

Upon her reaction, my imp breaks out into a grin. His body relaxes from its tense stance. He drips happiness.

I've never cause him to smile in such a way. The thought bothers me in a way I know it shouldn't. It is only a dream, after all.

Sweet joy echoes about the room as the pair reveal in their simple, understated contentment. All from a stupid, cliché flower. I mean, clearly they are lovers. If Gold ever gave me flowers-which he never had, and most likely never would unless he took up a sudden likely for gardening, and wished for me to plant along the south wall- - -I'd most likely laugh in the buds of any red roses. _The Symbol of Romance. _Right.

Jealousy is unbecoming. Turning my eyes away, I allow myself to slip from the dream.

**-XXX-**

**So, what do you think?**

**Hope you enjoyed this, thanks for the support, and please review! **


	33. XXXIII

**This chapter is a tad dramatic, watch out!**

**Thank you for the wonderful show of support! You guys are awesome, as always! **

**What did you think of Skin Deep? I loved it-everything, every-frickin'-thing about it. For those of you that follow me, I'm sure you've gotten the message seeing as I've published 5-ish Belle/Rumpel one-shots. Thank goodness I requested Belle be added as a character on here. Check them out? I've already read tons of good ones on here, so I'm not the only one who fell in love with the pair. **

**Please enjoy, and review! Reviews are my life blood. This week I could really use 'em. **

**-XXX-**

"I'm going out."

This is stated coldly, without inflection. I lift my mug from the counter, bringing to my lips, and taking a long draft. Mr. Gold stands impatiently before me, twisting his cane between his legs. It's been approximately three days since my last dream- - -the horrid one with the other woman. Whoever she was.

In those three days, Mr. Gold has been even more distant. Worse. This behavior makes me testy. I've been snappish, demanding to stay nearby, trailing him through the house like a lost puppy. On the alternative side, he's found me to be rather irritating, and has said so multiple times. In fact, I believe his exact terminology was something along the lines of _"bothersome nag." _The words hurt, but his sliding gaze and refusal to hold a decent conversation with me that is most painful. At the very least, he is talking to me.

There is a cough, and my thoughts are shattered. Apparently, I had zoned out while musing. I feel a slight wave of heat rush in me. "Um, okay. Where?"

His lips twist as precisely as the cane. "If I thought it to be your business, I would have informed you. However, I clearly did not. Consider it a kindness that I sought to tell you at all."

I bow my head. _Yeah, thanks for that. _

"I should be home in four or so hours. Don't wait up."

Truth be told, I hadn't intended to. After all, it's not as though we're sharing a bed. The only thing I'll be sharing tonight is a bottle of claret. With myself.

Without another word, Gold, walks to the foyer. Cane tapping out a constant beat against the wood, then the marble tiles. For a moment, the sound pauses. I'm expecting the solid slam of a door, but am disappointed when none comes. Instead, the tapping returns, louder, as though he is returning. Which he is. My heart jumps when he approaches.

Mr. Gold naturally does the unexpected. He bends slightly at the waist to press a clammy and fish-like kiss to my temple. Then, straightening, he returns to the foyer. This time, the door does slam. I don't know if I should feel glee or profound dissatisfaction.

**-XXX-**

Two hours and five glasses of wine later, I'm convinced both emotions should do nicely. Molly has left for the evening. It's ten o'clock, and Gold isn't due for another two hours. So I am left to my own devices. And my devices are bored.

Somehow, I find myself in the foyer, slugging on my purse and shoes, keys jiggling loudly in my hand. The sound is amusing, so I do it continually as I stumble out to my car, which is, thankfully, parked in the drive rather than the garage. Else I highly doubt I could've left the estate.

At this point I am entirely ready to leave. Bored and so, so lonely, there is only one place I want to go; my apartment. I haven't seen Chris since I'd left the hospital. He'd dropped a line, a text or two since then, but seeing him face to face would be far nicer. Besides, he was quite good at getting over hangovers. This would be a useful talent put to work soon.

I pull out of the drive jerkily. My motions are liquid, but not in a flowing, soothing way. They're sloshy and sloppy. Somehow, I manage to pass through the woods without hitting any trees and get out to the main road. The wheel slips through my fingers more than one time. I fumble at the various levers. The headlights are on, but so are the wipers. Unnecessarily. I scramble uselessly in an attempt to stop them.

This is the state Sheriff Emma Swan finds me in. Someone might've called in, or else she was simply on patrol. Whichever it was, I was caught. Good and truly caught.

Well, maybe not _"good."_

She doesn't turn on the siren, just the lights. I'm quick to get the message.

"Okay, Ophelia. How many did you have tonight?"

"Several," I assure her, slurring the "_s" _quite effectively. Emma winces. She stamps her feet in the cold, pulling at her hat.

"Did you have a fight?"

I explain, in brief terms, my most certain misery. My anguish sounds far more petty coming from a drunken mouth. Even so, Emma listens carefully. Once or twice, she nods, as if something of my sad little tale strikes a chord with her. When I mention to medieval-themed dreams, I see a hint of a frown sneak into her masked features. But no matter.

We decide that it's best if I not drive for the remainder of the evening. Emma kindly offers to drive me home (rather than dumping my ass into cell-maybe this new sheriff isn't so bad). I stumble from the driver's seat, worriedly fingering my keys.

"B-but my car." I whine. "My car can't stay here. He'll see it. And God, I'll be in s-s-soooooo much trouble."

Emma frowns. "What will he do to you? Miss Espen, are you being abused? Does Gold hit you?"

I giggle. "Don't call me _'Miss.' _We're like friends, silly goose. I'll call you…Emma! And you can call me…Ophie!"

"Okay…Ophie. Does Mr. Gold ever hurt you?"

I shake my head, locks of copper flying wildly about, like a dizzy halo. Or perhaps a fan. It's hard to tell in my inebriated state. My entire head felt painfully fuzzy.

"Well," The young sheriff sighs. "That's something. I'll get you home. We'll take your car, and I'll just walk back." I begin to protest loudly as she leads me back to my car by my elbow. "No, no. Listen, its fine. Mr. Gold's house isn't more than a mile away, I'll be fine."

Hesitating, I clumsily lean forward. "I don't want you to get hurt!"

She winces again. "Pinky swear I won't. C'mon."

The drive is short. Soon, my keys are jingling open the imposing front door. I direct Emma to my room-for she insists on seeing me to bed-where she waits until I've settled under the covers. Before she can leave, I reach out, taking her wrist. She halts, startled, looking down upon me. It takes me a moment for my intoxicated mind to spit out the proper words.

"Thanks…Emma. You didn't have to-to do this."

She doesn't smile. But her face does soften. "No problem. We've all had those nights. Now sleep it off."

**-XXX-**

**_Gold_**

Upon my return home, I find an anxious and fuming Emma Swan waiting for me in the kitchen. She'd helped herself to a cup of hot coco, and a steady helping of fury. I'd wondered, when I had spotted the county vehicle on the side of the highway, coming toward the woods, if perhaps she had graced my lands with a call. I had not imagined the visit to be so intimate- - -not necessarily in my home. But here she was.

In my face. Something akin to a storm brews on her tense face. I remain calm, asking, "Miss Emma. To what do I owe the pleasure? You don't typical come 'round for social visits. In fact, I am surprised you know where my quaint estate sits. Though, you are the sheriff."

"That's right. I am." She snarls. "The sheriff that happened to catch your completely _wasted _girlfriend_ driving _down Main Street."

I freeze. _Ophelia?_

Though I've said nothing, Emma nods. She cups her-my-mug, downing the last drops of coco before she stands, straightening lean legs.

"She told me quite a story. Crazy, Dark Age-dreams keeping her up. And about the neglect she's received from you." Her eyebrows rise. "I don't want to interfere in your personal life, Mr. Gold. But she isn't happy. And, while it's hard for me to say this, it's because she is missing _you."_

Rooted to the spot, I can only incline my head. "I don't know what you're speaking of, Miss Swan. The dreams are familiar, but neglect? I keep her in comfort. She is wanting of nothing."

"Except you."

I flinch. She's wrong. Ophelia has been distracted by the dreams, nothing more. They're troubling her. Not me. It was me she was trying to leave behind.

"I'd never thought she would turn to drink." I finally manage, slight edge to my voice hidden in its soft tones. "She had never shown any inclination before."

"I dug up her records, after we found her in the woods. You didn't do your research, Gold. She's been caught on a DWI at least once before. After her dad…." The young woman drifts off. "I suspect maybe a couple more times. Graham probably let it pass, though."

Her predecessor's name is said in passing with a hint of a quiver. I do not remark. Rather, I look to the floor. We both have our weaknesses, cracked points in our foundations. We're both…human. Almost.

As a returned gesture of goodwill, I drive her back to the highway-also, for some indescribable reason called "Main Street" by the natives-where the white county car sits. She removes herself from the vehicle gracefully. I am about to drive off, but think better of it, and roll down my window for a quick parting word.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For bringing her home safely to me. I know you do not care for me, Miss Swan, but I have an infinite amount of respect for you. I have no doubt you will behave with discretion, when it comes to information of this troubling circumstance."

Emma readily nods. "It's my job," She assures me. "No problem."

She turns to go, but is held back for several seconds, pursuing a great internal debate. She swings around to look at me, the puff ball on the top of her hat bobbling..

"My advice is probably worth nothing to you. But I'm going to tell you it anyways: Ophelia is a good person. I barely know her, but Mary Margret thinks she is just about the best thing ever. She is sweet, and gentle, and quite, and…. excuse me, but probably way too good for you." Here Emma pauses, taking a breath, which is then releases as a puff of misty crystals.

Continuing, she stuffs her hands in her pockets."Even I can see that she's struggling to find a way to balance herself against whatever kind of power you hold over her. All of that effort, that fight, makes one thing obvious to me. She truly, deeply cares about you. What you think of her, how you feel about her. Because, if she didn't, I don't think she would fight herself quite so much when it came down to it. But she does. And I don't think you're seeing just how much she wants you to want her. Heck, I don't even think Ophelia realizes it."

Emma takes another breath. "So, my advice, whether you want it or not, is to stop giving a damn about what the town says, and let her in. She's young and really scared. It's normal. For God's sake, she's barely twenty-five. You're nearly twice her age. You've lived two of her lifetimes. Just…remember that. Let the little things slide. This is new to her."

That being said, Emma steps out into the night without another word.

**-XXX-**

She's asleep when I creep into her room. It is just after one. I have already removed my suit, and am wearing my traditional pajamas. Without waking her, I manage to slip into bed. Unwilling to touch her, I lying uncomfortably tense. The circumstances themselves are awkward, even without Ophelia being conscious. And with her asleep, things have scarcely improved.

Perhaps the sheriff is correct. Perhaps I should strive toward understanding my girl's emotional swings, rather than rationalizing them. They are two different things. One requires empathy. The other, an IQ. I think I have both. Possibly.

I spend a restless night beside her, exiting the room softly as the sun peaks over the tree-lined horizon. The sky has turned a misty pink by the time I hear the shower start. There is a faint sound of cursing as the hot water pellets her body. I ought to start some coffee. She'll need something to make the sobriety easier. Coffee would be something of a start.

**-XXXX-**

**On that note, I do not in any way advocate drunk driving. It is a dumbass-y thing to do that will most likely lead to injury of yourself or innocent persons.**

**Seriously. Just...don't.**

**What'd you think?**

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? Just click that button! **


	34. XXXIV

**After much consideration I've decided I want a beta. **

**Who'd like the job? There have been several offers. If you want it, PM me your pitch. By now, you know my style, my preferences, so I think I can trust that the right person will come from my fans. Heck, I may even take on two people. **

**On that note, is anyone a big HP fan? Particularly Draco/Astoria? I've sent two betas requests with no reply, so if anyone is interest in taking on that position, shoot me a message and we'll talk. It's almost done-6 chapters, all written, they just need a second set of eyes. **

**As always, thank you for your support, please continue reviewing, and enjoy! **

**-XXX-**

It is five forty-five. I've spent the last fifteen minutes drumming my fingers against the cool glass counter top. The oils of my skin are leaving unattractive smudges. Mr. Gold has frowned at those marks pointedly several times, and I have pointedly ignored him back. At the very least, it will give me something to do tomorrow. Yup, I've been reduced to the cleaning lady.

Not that I mind. I mean, at the very least, I'm doing _something._

Mr. Gold finally rises from his position behind the ancient register. I am quickly attentive. Hopefully, we'll be leaving soon. It's nearly dinnertime, and I am famished.

But no. Mr. Gold does retrieve his case and does come out from behind the counter, but instead of opening the door for me, or any of that, he says-

"Mary Margret and Isabella are waiting for you at the diner."

Confused, I shrug on my coat. "Why?"

His smile is forced. "It is a surprise. You shall be dining together this evening. My treat."

At this, I am instantly suspicious. We've only ever eaten apart in the evenings once, the night I was missing. It is a rare occasion. And weird. While things have been tense as of late at our dinner table, we still always, always had dinner together. Always.

"Why?" I ask again.

"I have some business, with the mayor. Shortly, in fact. Toddle along, my dear. I'll stop by in an hour or so. Enjoy your night out."

By now, he's shuffled me outside. The store is dark, the door locked, and my partner's face is shadowed. I hug my arms to myself, feelings the night's breezes through my wool. With the tip of his head, Gold limps to the back parking lot, where his car sits. I watch him go, until he turns the corner, leaving me entirely alone. With nothing left to do, I start for Granny's with a sigh. It will be nice to see Mary Margret and Isabella.

**-XXX-**

At seven-fifteen, Mr. Gold's car pulls up in front of Granny's. Mary Margret prods me to look away from my half-finished piece of carrot cake, pointing uneasily with her fork as figure approaches. His gait is unmistakable. Ruby retreats to the kitchen, most likely to snag a mug and selection of teas. Isabella pales visible, and pushes away her ice cream. As for myself, I simply turn back to my cake. Let him find me relaxed and uncaring.

He stops before us, putting one hand on my shoulder while the other rests on the silver tip of his less-formal cane. The possessive gesture is unfamiliar. Especially considering his remote behavior since my "_little runaway escapade_," as he likes to call it. Mary Margret's gaze lingers on my shoulder for several seconds before she acknowledges the man. Isabella keeps her head bowed.

"My apologies, ladies. I was detained. Apparently Sheriff Swan had some more trouble with her automobile."

Immediately, Mary Margret is alert. "Emma? Is she alright?"

"I believe so. Her brakes were malfunctioning, though she and Mr. Glass were unharmed. Lucky I came across them. Your brothers retrieved the car, Ophelia, and I took them to Ms. Swan's office."

This doesn't do much to comfort Mary Margret. She has visibly paled—-which is saying a lot, considering her normal pallor. Isabella glances at her worriedly, and puts an arm around her shoulder. I reach across to touch her hand. The grip on my shoulder tenses briefly before relaxing upon seeing my intent. I fight back a sigh.

"I should get home. Make sure everything alright." She hurries to stand. "Dinner was great, Ophelia. I'll see you again soon."

"Yeah. Thanks, Mary." I say, smiling lightly. "I hope everything is alright."

Her eyes flicker between Mr. Gold and myself.

"Ms. Blanchard," Mr. Gold says politely.

"Bye," She says, gathering her jacket and grey stocking cap. Isabella is quick to follow her out, stumbling through an excuse about her husband.

I wave before turning to my partner. Mr. Gold moves to take Mary and Isabella's abandoned seat in the booth, settling across from me with little trouble. Ruby appears seconds later with a mug, hot water, and small box of tea bags in hand. Mr. Gold oh-so graciously accepts the lot. I fight a heavy urge to roll my eyes. Ruby clears the table of the abandoned plates, slipping me a small smile before disappearing into the kitchen once more. Her kindness gives me strength. I have at least one ally at the diner tonight. As he prepares himself a cup, I fork a careful bite of cake into my mouth. Together, we savor our goodies in a relaxed silence.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" I nod toward the door Mary Margret and Isabella had just passed through.

"If you must know, I was meeting the mayor in a business exchange. Ms. Swann being a naturally suspicious person, took it into her head to follow Regina-with Sydney Glass in tow-and happened to encounter a sign. Brake failure…a messy thing. It is very lucky neither were hurt."

I agree readily. However, I've latched onto one detail he had only brushed over. "What sort of business deal was this?"

The fiend smiles. "Oh, I am sure you will see, soon enough."

The answer leaves me unsatisfied, but I let it pass, choosing instead to finish my cake. Gold sips his tea without comment.

**-XXX-**

Only a day or two later, the word comes out-Storybrook's beloved mayor has thoughtfully constructed a new, lovely playground for the community's children, tucked in a section of the wood. A section that had, prior to last week, belonged to Mr. Gold, a local pawnbroker and landlord. According to the paper, Gold had sold Regina the land for a very good rate.

"I just want to give the children a safe place to play. Children deserve to be safe." Mr. Gold was quoted as saying after the city council meeting.

Not everyone was as enthusiastic. Sheriff Swan didn't seem to like the playground. She patrolled there often, a suspicious glint in her eye. Though I am in her debt, there is something that relentlessly bothers me about the young woman.

My partner's involvement raises some eyebrows. Even I am mildly surprised. Though, by now I've learned to not be taken aback by any of his actions, rather, to not hold any expectations in the first place. So far, this has been a good policy. Instead of being staggered, I'm simply amused.

I go with Mary Margret to see the playground. Metallic, with rounded corners and whimsical spirals, it is an intriguing structure. Mary Margret cheerily waves to several of her students, and a couple even come over to talk to her. They're sweet, all with big eyes and shy smiles. To see their simple happiness is comforting. It's been a long time since I've see children play or laugh. While I'm not really a kid-person, even I can admit they're rather endearing creatures, easy to appreciate. Mary Margret seems to believe they are the best thing ever. Maybe she's rubbing off on me.

**-XXX-**

"Have you ever had children?"

We're in the shop. I'm balancing on a rather rickety stool with duster in hand, attempting to rid the picture frames of the solid layer they've accumulated. This is one of those jobs that Gold is simply inept in-being unable to hold himself on a stool prevents a lot of dusting, arranging, lifting, etc. Luckily, I'm not such a surly employee that I could refuse those tasks at which he is unable. I quietly scoop up the duster, or broom, or light bulb, and set to it. No need to make a fuss.

Mr. Gold doesn't look up from his record books. Merely turns a page, and continues writing. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't think it's fair that you know everything about me, but I don't seem to know anything of your life. You've known me since I was a kid." Swishing the feathers, I run the duster across the top of a small pastel. "But I have only been a blip in your long life-seen only a small fraction of it."

"You've never been a blip, my dear." He still remains distracted by his figures, head down.

"Even so." Now the art is done, I move to return the duster and stool to the back of the shop. I enter the front again saying, "It still stands that I know very little."

"You're one of many. But take comfort, my love, you know more than most."

I come 'round the counter, stopping only a few feet from him. "Yet you say I am not a blip." I whisper. My hand stretches out to his caramel locks. The touch causes him to pause in his writing, close his eyes, and prevents breathing. I'm surprise; for all of his coldness, the man's reaction to my smallest affections is downright…nervous. As though he cannot expect such things from me. "Will you answer my question?"

Beneath my hands, I feel him turn rigid. But he doesn't pull away.

"The oil, the one of the stag, it's crooked."

I blink. He lifts a lean finger to point toward the painting, which is indeed, crooked. I hadn't even noticed. Come to think of it, I hadn't even seen that one while I was dusting.

Without a word, I retract my hand and duck into the back to retrieve the stool once more. This particular piece is a little higher up, so I must strain to reach the tip of the gilded frame, twisting my arm in an attempt to right it. That's just when the stool decides to be finicky, however, and I find myself swaying. With a gasp, I make to grab the wall, but it's no use. The stool tips and turns, sending me down- - -

Right into the pawnbroker's arms. They wrap around my waist swiftly, with no hesitation. His breath is steady in the shell of my ear. About to have an aneurysm, I sag against him hopelessly. How had he managed to come over here so quickly? I hadn't even heard his cane?

That's because, as I soon realize, it's still propped against the glass counter, near the register. He'd come all the way over here without the least bit of support. My arms automatically wiggle out from his to lift his torso, offering a place for balance. But he doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he keeps a tight, unyeilding grip on my waist, planting his lips in my hair, and putting one leg between mine to maintain a tentative posture.

We stay like that for a long time. It's awkward. He doesn't particularly care, however, and I can't find it in me to protest. I wouldn't dare. He hasn't touched me in _ages. _I was just beginning to think I didn't miss it. Gods, was I wrong.

My skin warms pleasantly with the contact. The moment isn't sexual. I feel heat, but nothing tense. It's a comfortable sort of feeling, really. Comfort is returning to us now, as a pair of people. Like air to lungs, deprived of precious oxygen. Like we were on the brink of drowning. Just when I was about to resign myself to a life of complete boredom, loneliness in the halls of his stupidly big house, he does this to me. He...comes back. I fold myself against him. He accepts me with a perfectly soft sigh.

"I had a son. Bailey."

The admission surprises me. Continuing, Mr. Gold tucks my head under his chin. "He was fourteen when they can for him. Kidnapping is a nasty business. His mother had left us, long before, but…that didn't make it any easier. Losing two, you find, is harder than losing one. I tried _everything. _This was before I had any sort of money, and power or influence. After…after, I decided I would never let myself be disadvantaged again. I would never again allow someone to be lost to me so easily. Not like Bailey."

All the while, he traces long patterns into the flesh of my back. I stand, stunned. I had no idea. None. At all. Neither, I suspect, does anyone else. Mr. Gold, Storybrook's cankerous old man, was a lonely widower and former father. No wonder he'd freaked so much when I left. Well, tried to leave.

This explains so much-his distance, yet constant need to cling. His glorious experience in the field of love. All of that reluctance to open up about himself, but his want to know every aspect of me. His softness toward children, admiration of Henry, and willingness to support and provide for the community's kids.

"Who could have known?" I ask softly, pulling away. For a moment, he looks wary, but lets me place my hands on either of his temples, thumbs brushing past the scalp, massaging the edge of his forehead. "You never told me. All this time. You're lonely."

He doesn't deny nor confirm my statement. Instead, he sighs again. Wordless, he kisses my forehead.

**-XXX-**

**Okay. I've planned it out.**

**To Wish will be 41 chapters long. I've already started 40, with 38, 39, and 41 to finish. I'm planning on hopping forward months, at some point, and then resolve the curse. All episodes between, let's say...Fred and Red-Handed will be addressed, but after that...we'll have a gap in time. I may write one-shots for the in-between, or just add on as inspiration come to me, but this story is nearing it's end. For something I meant to write only 15 chapters for, this sucker has come a long way. **


	35. XXXV

**This is dedicated to my two new betas, Juliette L'etoile and KingofJesters. They did a brilliant job. Many PM-ed me for the job, but they just fit so perfectly. Thanks, guys! And I must also thank OldRomantic, who has taken up editing my OUAT one-shots. We released on this morning "Open Door," check it!**

**Please review! I discuss Belle in this chapter...tell me what you think! **

**And, as alway, thanks for the support.**

I find it in one of those big, barren rooms that's near the top of the house. There are many of them, and though they're not boarded, the message is clear—_caution, bad memories on approach. _Slightly dusty, always dark, they are a whole set of apartments bare and open. Trinkets lay untouched on marble end-tables, great wooden mantles display antique paintings, Tiffany lamps sit beside prim chaises and armchairs. Indeed, a different level of elegance is on the upper levels. Everything is beautiful, in an untouched way, though I get the feeling these rooms were once greatly used—the oriental carpets have worn trails through them. One of the armchairs has this permanent indention in it, as though someone has sat in it often, for long amounts of time. There are other smaller clues as well.

Truth be told, I hadn't gone up looking for remembrances of past loves. I hadn't intended that at all. The library was exhausted of manuscripts in need of repairing or cleaning. Desperate for work, I'd asked Molly for help. Surely there had to be more books around here somewhere.

There were, she said, in the upper apartments of the house. But, she continued, biting her lower lip, she wasn't sure if I was allowed to go up there. After all, Mr. Gold housed some more personal items, up there, on the upper floors. She'd better check—

I didn't give her time to. "I'll just pop up. I'm looking for books, not atomic bombs. I promise I won't jostle anything or make a mess. Please, Molly? He did hire me to repair _all_ the books in his collection."

Eventually, she relented. I took the stairs two at a time. _Work!_ I was buoyant.

Digging through a glass cupboard kind of thing, I found it. Framed in a tarnished sliver frame, the woman stares out at me, eyes icy and lips coolly pressed together. Thick dark waves lie tossed over one shoulder. Her expression is keen, intense. For a moment I stood, holding the frame, staring down at the face. The face that was so, so very familiar. Almost as though from a dream.

A dream.

I dropped the frame, scrambling backwards, into the glass cabinet. Impossible. I'd only seen her face just now, today. But no, there it was, looking up at me. The girl from my dream.

She was very pretty. The picture was black and white, so I couldn't make out all the details. Another pang of jealousy rose within me. I squelched it down. The imp doesn't exist on this plane of reality. Envy is absolutely useless.

Who could this woman be? The photo isn't that old, which rules out a mother. But she's quite young, which also seems to conflict with the idea of a sister. Besides, why would a family photo be tucked all the way up here? Was there strife? Or, was she perhaps a…lover?

I squirmed at the thought. It is perfectly possible. But why had I never heard of her? I grew up here, I've known Mr. Gold since I was a kid, yet talk of a girlfriend has never hit my ears. Unless this arrangement was secret, much like mine. Then no one would know of it.

Resolved to know, I tucked the photograph under my arm and stormed downstairs. Gold would be home in a few hours. Until then, I was bound for a long nap.

Daytime naps kept the dreams at bay—though they'd still not returned completely, snippets came and went every night. Thankfully, I'd stopped screaming every time I woke. That's about all I had to be thankful for.

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

"Who is this?"

The question hits me with dread before I even turn to look. The day has been a long one; repossession of a floral truck, a somewhat busy day at the shop, coming home to discover a very disgruntled florist in my drive, presumably waiting to attack me, calling in Sheriff Swan, giving a report….

The mere idea of what the crazed man might've done to myself—or worse, Molly and Ophelia—had I not spotted him is still enough to make me see red, but I calmly reply, "What, my dear?"

It's at that precise moment that I turn to see the picture she's holding. And I am left breathless.

Beautiful, beautiful Belle. The photo could never do her justice. Nonetheless, I am taken aback by the sight of her, as well as the slightly disgruntled expression playing across Ophelia's features. Or, should I rather say, _fighting_. The girl is struggling very hard to maintain a blank appearance. Jealous? Oh my, how very delicious.

"A friend," I say shortly.

"Whose picture you kept tucked away in the attic?"

"Firstly, that space is not an attic. Secondly, I don't know who gave you permission to be up there, but mark my words, you'll not have it again; and thirdly, yes, I did keep it up there."

"Why?"

"Personal reasons." I straighten my tie. "Reasons that do not concern you, my love."

Her nostrils flare delightfully. "Tell me. It's weird. Obviously she meant something to you. A lot of something. Who was she?"

I smirk. "Look at you. Is someone….green with envy?"

"You're the only one who is green," she counters. My heart jolts, but then I realize she is referring to my dress—I had changed from my dark blue shirt and sky-colored tie to a forest green sweater once I arrived home this evening. Disappointed, I shake my head.

"Ophelia, she is long gone—"

"Who?" she persists.

I am caught short. On one hand, I want to be open with Ophelia. On the other, Belle is something of a private pain to me—one I'd never thought I would encounter here. And I am not sure this is something I should share with my girl. Taking a breath, I decide to give a modified version.

"We were…together, in a sense. She lived with me, for sometime, as…." A what? Housekeeper? Maid? "…an employee. We began to grow close and I—I thought it would be best to break things off. For both our sakes. She didn't like this, so….she left."

Ophelia stares.

At the moment, we're in the kitchen. It is Molly's night off, so Ophelia has been trying her hand at some sort of stir-fry thing. Apples, onions, and polish sausage sizzle in the pan, the caramelized fruit and vegetable releasing a lovely aroma. Rice boils in a large copper pot beside the pan. I'm holding the dregs of lukewarm tea in a mug, wishing for her to speak. The photo sits on the counter. I do not dare look at it.

"What was her name?"

"Calla." I say shortly. The lie comes readily enough.

She muses on this, a curious expression crossing her face, before she turns back to the pan. For several minutes she stirs. Then—

"You seem to have no trouble starting up a relationship with me," she says, tapping the bamboo spoon against the metal edge of the skillet. "Why was it different with her?"

"Different time, different woman," I say softly.

"Well," Ophelia bites her lip. "She's really young…."

"As are you." I incline my head. "And that picture is not new, my love. We were all young, back then."

"What happened to her, to Calla?"

I allow my gaze to slip down to my teacup. The edge is chipped. My finger runs along the edge until it hits the chip. Unexpectedly sharpness breaks my skin, and soon a small dewdrop of blood forms on the pad of my finger. I stare at it. Bright scarlet, an unyielding scarlet. Like a rose. Must _everything_ remind me of the blasted girl? Even my own Ophelia…?

I have Ophelia now. She's no Belle, but that doesn't matter. She is Ophelia—her own person, one that I ought not compare to anyone else. Belle left. Ophelia stayed. And that makes all the difference.

"You're bleeding!" The gasp breaks my reverie. I've been staring at the cut for some time. Ophelia rushes over to me, towel in hand. She lifts my limb, examining the tiny wound as though it were a massive injury. I watch as she gently dabs at the bloodied skin.

"I'll get a band aid," she tells me. "And some triple-antibiotic. Wait here."

"I assure you, I have nowhere else to go."

She scowls comically. "I'll steal your cane if necessary, old man."

Convinced that I am thoroughly cowed, she hurries away to the bathroom. When she returns, a bandage and small white tube is offered forth. Ophelia turns off the stove before sitting beside me to dress the pinprick of a cut. Once done, she smiles lightly, kisses my finger, then goes back to cooking. The entire display is amusing.

"You're not jealous, are you, my dear?"

She doesn't turn away from the stove. "I was. But then I remembered—I'm here. And she isn't."

The admission isn't an "_I love you,_" but it is close enough to give me a feeling of warmth. Jealous would indicate feeling, and feeling is just the sort of thing I hoped she would have developed by now. Love takes time. But even this vague, undefined sort of regard she has for me will be enough.

We eat, read, then go to bed, the same as every night. However, just as I'm drifting off, it strikes me that I never did answer her question: whatever happened to "Calla"?


	36. XXXVI

**Dedicated to my brilliant betas, King of Jesters and Juliette! **

**Please review, ask questions, etc. **

**Oh, one last thing. There were a lot of comments on the similar falling whilst dusting thing to Skin Deep. To be honest, I wrote that weeks before Skin Deep aired. Cool thing, though. **

**-XXX-**

"I want to tell you a story tonight," he tells me. I'm tucked into my office, using my exacto blade to loosen the seam of an endpage on a 1920 edition of _As You Like It. _ The paper has been blotted with a damn sponge for about thirty minutes to loosen the glue. It's coming off like curls of butter, revealing a sticky and stained base board.

"That's new."

"Not from a book." Mr. Gold shakes his head. "Folklore. From my home country."

This peaks my interest. I glance up, pausing the knife. It quivers over the paper's surface.

"Oh?"

"Yes. A…" He hesitates. "…love story."

"Right now?"

At the moment, he's leaning against the door frame, dressed in his usual suit. There is an air of nervousness about him, unfamiliar and buzzing, crackling, like electricity. This disturbs me. My partner is not the "nervous" type. His whole air is disconcerting. Nevertheless, I set down my work when he answers, "yes, right now, naturally." We remove ourselves to the couch, the same one on which he first made moves towards a more _physical _relationship. The one on which he began reading to me. The leather, now very familiar, is inviting. I settle with my back against the arm closest to the window. Mr. Gold sits beside me, stretching out his crippled limb while the other remains upright and bent at the knee.

By now I've thoroughly examined his injury. After many nights of sharing the same room, the same bed, it would've been hard not to. Nearly a week after we'd grown intimate I asked to look at it properly.

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

When Ophelia rolls over, knocking her shoulder against mine, jostling me, I good-naturedly elbow her back. She giggles softly, then sinks into her pillow. After several minutes of staring into the ceiling whilst I browse the paper, she takes up curling her hair in and out of her fingers, an occupation that was distracting in more than one way. However, we've only just finished, so it cannot be appropriate to start up again. I have no doubt Ophelia would be completely game for it. Still, we need our sleep. It will do no one good to have both of us tired tomorrow.

She briefly pauses in her twisting, eyes sliding to my paper. Ophelia licks her lips slowly. I fear briefly that she is again aroused. But when she speaks I am surprised.

"What happened to your leg?"

Oh yes. Always surprising me, this one. It's a little endearing, if not frustrating, as well. I fold the periodical, tossing it to the floor.

"An accident. When I was young," I tell her quietly. "I cannot recall a time when I was not living in this condition."

The lack of details causes her to purse her lips. Instead of pressing for particulars, Ophelia sits up, leaning toward me. "May I see it?" she asks quietly. "Your leg?"

Another stunner. Part of me wishes to refuse. But a bigger part—the part that wants to snog this girl now, the part that wants to be with her every moment of every day, the part that took her on my desk in the shop—screams yes, a resounding, loud yes. Let her look, let her touch the wounded flesh. So I do. I say yes.

Something flashes in her eyes. Wordless, she goes to push back the covers. Slow and steady, her gaze rolls down my thin legs. Once my feet are uncovered Ophelia moves lower on the mattress. Scanning the skin, it only takes a few seconds for her eyes to alight on it —the thick, twisted line of pink flesh. From mid-thigh to knee to ankle the skin is marred by this mark. It is unbroken, but jagged. Tore brutally, and clearly healed under the worst of circumstances, it is far from pretty.

Ophelia looks up to me. Her fingers hover just over where the scar begins. Permission. She wants permission to touch. I say nothing—my throat has sealed entirely. I nod.

The wound was enough to prevent the re-growth of nerve tissue. I can feel nothing. Not her warm fingers skimming marred tissue. I close my eyes. Her hands work their way up and down the leg, feeling the imperfect lines, tracing the slashing edges. Massaging carefully, she works the skin to warmth.

It is an intimate moment. When she finished, her eyes meet mine. Without a sound, I sit up. I cradle her neck. Ophelia sits stalk-still. It's my turn now.

I choose to ignore my more primal urges. Caresses will do well enough. For a long moment, we sit together, touching and watching for reactions. Several times I feel her melt beneath me. But I restrain myself. Going much further would break this level of comfort. She needs to know it's more than the sex. Ophelia doesn't move toward more intimacy.

After a long time, we fall back into the pillows. She sleeps with her head against my shoulder, and I drift off with a smile.

**-XXX-**

_**Ophelia**_

"This story is very old," Mr. Gold begins. "It is actually exclusive to my family—

the heroine was an ancestor. We told it by the fire…my mother used to hold the tradition of telling. Are you ready?"

I nod.

He starts in a rumbling voice. "In the days of auld lang syne—a long time ago—there was a young maiden who lived with her family in a small country village. She was the youngest of the family, and the prized daughter for both her beauty and wit. And though she was greatly loved, as she grew, the maiden found that she was a lonely creature. None in the village could offer her true companionship.

"For a time, the maiden was reserved to this loneliness. She grew into a lovely young woman who was even more the apple of her family's eye. Yet the misery grew. She took to sneaking out at night and taking long walks in the woods that surrounded the village. Now, in these woods, supposedly, a vicious monster lived; a trickster who made deceptive deals with all who crossed him, then collected their souls for payment. But the young maiden didn't believe these tall tales. She felt perfectly comfortable among the trees. She would sit, watching the moon, and wishing to know what it was she desired.

"It so happened that one evening, while wishing upon the moon, that the trickster appeared. He had been watching this sad young lady for some time and was keen to help her—for a price. In exchange for visits at the fullest and darkest times of the moon, every month for twelve months, he would give her dreams—though she knew not what they were. So, she kept up the bargain.

"At first, these visits were hard. He was an imposing, difficult beast. To make the long hours pass, she began to tell stories. In particular, one story that spanned months of visits. He loved this story. Every time he saw her, he asked to hear another chapter of the tale. When bored, the trickster often sang to her, or began quiet debates. They grew to be happy friends. The maiden began to see past the monster and into the man beneath.

"But there was unrest in the kingdom. The trickster was called upon often for various deals, as was such. These deals worried the maiden. She caught wind, one day, of a heinous plot against her trickster. Yet when she warned him, he merely laughed. No harm would befall him. He assured her that all would be well. Nevertheless, she feared for him. The trickster was a wanted man. Her own fear scared herself—she had not assumed her own capacity of emotion for the trickster. She loved him.

"Her fears came to fruition. The trickster was captured by the royal family and held in a wretched prison. He was kept there to prevent further darkness from befalling the kingdom. His maiden looked long and far—for her story was unfinished. She had to tell him the end of the tale. So, she hatched a scheme to break into the palace prison and find her unlikely love. Deep in the night, she snuck past guards and dove deep into the bowels of the prison pit, where the trickster sat in his cell."

Mr. Gold drifts off a little, eyes frozen on the shelf across from us. He has a reluctant expression on his features. The story has me enthralled. I wait for a long moment before prompting him to finish.

"Is that the ending?" I ask.

My partner starts. "The end? Yes," he muses. "And no. My mother always stopped there, but we all knew it wasn't over."

"So…you don't know the end?" I am disappointed.

He chuckles. "No, my dear, not technically. The story is still going, I suppose. As a child, I always imagined the maiden to be still searching those prisons, and her trickster to still be waiting."

This amuses me. I hug my legs to my chest. Mr. Gold looks to me, a slight smile quirking his lips. I smile back, tentative.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes. It was a little sad, though."

"The best stories are," he tells me. We have a lamp on, one that casts a warm glow upon our skin. Nevertheless, my partner's eyes are in shadow. I cannot discern his mood. "The best leave you uncertain, make you question."

"Does it?" I'd never considered this. "I thought the best stories always had happier endings…well, most of them."

"Few have pleasant ends." He shakes his head. "And those that do….well, they simply end on happier intervals."

"Someone has a bleak outlook."

Mr. Gold laughs. "And someone else is naïve," he rebuttals mildly. "But not terribly so."

**-XXX-**

**Auld Lang Syne is the traditional start of the Scottish fairy stories. Basically, their version of "Once upon a time…." **

**I'm sorry it took me so very long to update. My life this week has been pure hell. 37 and 38 are done, 39 started, 40 planned. It might be 45 chapters…maybe? **

**We'll see. Enjoy, please review! **


	37. XXXVII

**Sorry for the wait guys! My betas had a busy week, and I load 'em down with two chapters. But hey, I'd rather have wonderfully edited chapters published than crappy ones. Thank you so much, Juilette & Jester!**

**Expect 38 tomorrow morning/Wed...**

**Thanks for the support, hope you enjoy this! Please review!**

Though the weather is frigid, we begin to go on walks again. They aren't nearly as quiet as before. We talk of everything—the town, Regina, Emma, books, music, the world outside. I'd never left Storybrooke for anything more than a daytrip. All of my family is here, and my family was never really the vacationing type. The most we ever did was camping by the river. However, Mr. Gold has seen something of the world. He has been all around, the result of poverty in his youth. When those stories had passed, he would quietly describe his life before Storybrooke and between the travels, his life with Bailey and Mora. Mora, his wife.

I never worked up the nerve to make direct inquires. He spoke in a monologue, giving acute (yet vague) descriptions. The questions I might've voiced are quick to die on my tongue. He is already vulnerable, my prying would likely not help matters

Their life sounds beautiful. While Mora comes to be a secondary character, mentioned only in passing, it is Bailey who receives the lion's share of attention. He was a witty boy, quick on his feet, tender-hearted. He liked horses, could out run most of the village, and disliked fish. They lived in a very secluded little cottage, nestled on the outskirts of a Scottish village. Mora cooked very well with their meager cupboard. It is a far cry from my partner's current lifestyle.

I try very hard not to compare myself to this faceless beauty who knew Mr. Gold before the limp, before he turned bitter and hard toward the world, before he was worth millions, before even I was born. It is a difficult occupation. But not when Mr. Gold describes her nature.

"She lacked empathy," he recalls. "Do not mistake me, she was kind, just…not relatable."

This lessens my insecurities by a fraction. Between Mora and Calla, my head grows quite dizzy. I've never been with anyone who has had long-lived past relationships. Most people my age might've had one serious partner once, but two was unheard of. I get quite a feeling of cold when thinking of these women.

Bay, on the other hand, warms me. A father-son relationship is an entirely different creature. Any jealousy there would be useless and ill-spirited.

**-XXX-**

"Are you happy?" the imp asks me one evening. We're not in the clearing, but in a castle sort of thing. There is a spinning wheel in one corner, a long table down the center of the room, and many glass trinkets spread about. Tall drapes go from floor to ceiling on one wall. Though grandly appointed, the room has a sense of dreariness about it—much like the upper rooms of Mr. Gold's manor.

I drift around the room, running a hand along the table. "I suppose so. Why?"

"You don't act happy." He tilts his head, giving me a light cackle. "In fact, one would think you were living out a prison sentence."

Tracing out the pattern of a leaf out of the carpet with my toe, I shake my head. "No. I'm happy enough. Just sick of….this."

The imp watches me. He's sitting in a high-backed armchair at the head of the table, eye half-lidded. An air of annoyance emulates from him tonight. I walk to the other side of the table to examine the drapes.

"Have you ever heard of a story," I ask, "About a trickster and a young maiden?"

He snorts. "There are many stories of tricksters. Have you any key plot points to tell me?"

"Well," I hesitate. "The maiden meets with the trickster twice every month, at the full and dark moon, and tells him this never-ending story. They sort of fall in love, but then the trickster is captured and…well, it ends there, really."

My imp considers this. His frozen jaw line briefly reminds me of Mr. Gold's, and I find myself ducking my head. A lot of things about this imp are beginning to remind me of Mr. Gold.

"Yes. I have." He props his feet, encased in knee-high books, up on the edge of the long table.

"Do you know its ending?"

He eyes me. "Of course not. It isn't over yet."

**-XXX-**

There was one thing, however, about Bay, that worried me. I voice this worry after a great deal of thought.

"Do you want children?"

The fatal question. The question that can ultimately make or break a potential life-long commitment. As I am still unsure, it doesn't hold quite as much weight with me.

We're on a walk when I pop the question. It had started with companionable silence. Now the quiet is significantly heavier. Yet our pace does not slow. He's considerably limber, even on the roughest parts of the path. At some part, I'm the one clinging to him as he gracefully moves over steep inclines, rocks, and the like. Gold finds this most amusing, his lips twitching into a quirk whilst I stumble and fall as effortlessly as he glides. Needless to say, it's irritating.

"Why do you ask?" He peers at me curiously.

Staring ahead, I answer, "It's just something important to know."

Gold considers this. I lurch forward on the path, falling against the trunk of an oak. The culprit, a round-ish terracotta-coloured stone, sits innocently in the middle of the path. I glare.

"Would you be willing to give them to me?"

_Whoa. _And I'd thought my question was weighty.

"Uh, kids?" I squeak. My hands brush rough bark, encountering a patch of moss. I rake my fingers through it.

"Yes."

Truth be told, I'd never sat down and thought out that particular aspect of my life. To have kids, one needs a proper life partner. And, up until two months ago, I'd not had many prospects of acquiring one. Bookish and meek, suitors had never flocked to my door. Besides, I'd never really _liked_ kids. I figured it was something that would alter with age. I was right—I no longer abhorred them, but they were still not my preferred choice of company.

"I guess it would depend on…." I hesitate, "….circumstances. I mean, kids are a big commitment. That's why I asked you. I assume you'd want some."

He smirks. "It would depend on circumstances."

"But really," I persist. "If you could?"

"Yes," he says without a moment's consideration. "I would love to have one or so."

One? I frown. Though we'd had our spats, I loved my brothers and sisters. Sure, there were hand-me-downs, fights, neglect, broken toys, and sharing issues. But there were also epic games of make-believe, someone to always read me a bedtime story, a comfortable constant level of noise about the house. Chris was still my best friend. Tom had been the best big brother. Jen and Drew were bossy pests, but I was always dressed neatly, and my lunches were always packed. Ricky and Gerry could be total brats, but I always had someone would could fix my bike. We were relatively happy. One kid, all on their own…?

Mr. Gold continued. "If you wish, we could adopt."

This isn't disagreeable. Still, I'd always thought, if I were to have kids, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to carry a baby to term. It's supposed to be a bonding thing, or something.

I pull away from the oak, hands migrating to the nearest pine branch. The soft bristles tickle my palm.

"Would you want children, Ophelia?"

"I don't even know your name," I admit softly.

He quirks his thin lips. "I suppose that's fair enough. Couldn't you just dream me one up, then?"

The subject of dreams—particularly mine—hasn't been breached since my hospital visit nearly a month ago. They faded, temporarily, with our distance. But now that we're back to sharing a bed, I've found them to haunt me again. They are a constant, playing about the edges of my mind. The clearing in the woods. The stone prison. The circular castle. The golden imp. Gold. _Gold. _

I wonder if I am projecting upon my imp Mr. Gold's characteristics. It's not unheard of. Vague memories of my high school psychology class' dream unit arises. Later, I remind myself, I'll go to the library and browse a few books on dream psychology. If it is Mr. Gold who is haunting me nightly, then why?

"I'd rather not."

"And of children?"

The question stumps me again. We've been together for a total of almost three months. Three turbulent months. I've settled nicely enough; I like the house, our routine, our banter, etcetera. Sometimes, it's as if we've been together much longer. But we haven't. And that's not okay; it's not ideal circumstances for raising children.

I still feel as though we're on an unlevel playing field. I've stepped up over the last month alone, but he still holds the advantage over me. Nothing more than power. I need a solid, level, _equal _relationship. This power struggle cannot go on, not if we want a future. Especially not if we want a future that involves children.

"Someday," I finally manage. "But not now."

Judging from his small smile, that was the right answer exactly.


	38. XXXVIII

**I held back in updating for two very good reasons: A) because 37 took so long to just show up. It's very frustrating. The site has been wonky lately-multiple people's stories have been technically uploaded, "show up," but they're impossible to access. B) It is the eve of spring break, and I had an Anatomy test, an Advanced Algebra test, a sculpture, and a massive research paper to study for/work on.**

**If you're bored and missing me, however...I've got about 6 one-shots, three more on the way, on my page. Most are Rumpel/Belle, some involve Regina, and I want to install a Snow White short soon. Check 'em if you're interested. Also, remember that there are a lot of budding stories on the site that need some love. This last week alone I've found some lovely ones. And, finally, as always, I encourage you to join the FB fan group. They're an awesome collection of folks. We're thinking about getting t-shirts, which would be the coolest thing ever! **

**On a different note, Robert Carlyle responded to one of my tweets this week. That is all.**

** And one last thing-if you are a Tumblr addict, check out my blog, listed on my account page. I've been vacant recently, but once school slows down I will be back up and running. I may even take one shot or drabble requests. **

**Okay, I feel a though I need to outline the types of dreams Ophie is having, as they're becoming muddled even to me:**

**Visits with the imp. Ophelia is in her Storybrooke-mind, not recognizing Rumple.**

**Flashbacks. Ophelia is still in her Storybrooke-mind, but is seeing past events through her pre-curse POV. **

**-XXX-**

_Everyone is laughing and dancing. The entire scene is one of merriment. Even I, the bookish youngest daughter, have been pulled into the circle of firelight to enjoy the setting. My sisters have both found partners who are all too willing to sweep them into a dance. A loud fiddle, flutes, and a crude drum sound out a traditional reel. The twists and turns of the dancers in the center of our village green delight me. Tonight, all of the village has turned out in their best, their brightest. Gwen, who calls village dances "quaint" but clearly loves them more than court balls, wears one of her looser gowns, something old, but a bright yellow that sets off her dark hair nicely. Christian looks splendid in his trim vest and fawn-coloured breeches. My father claps beside me, beaming. Mother has her arm tucked into his. I suspect that they will soon be with the others._

_ I'm not a dancer, so I hang back, letting the fire warm my face, listening to the music and the murmur of good-natured voices. It's the spring solstice, so the temperature is still a little nippy. Hugging myself, I rub my arms. _

_ Mother and Drouina insisted that I wear something nicer. Of course, most nice things are made for formal events, things that take place indoors, so the fabric of my red dress is rather thin. I'd much prefer wearing my blue homespun day dress, the one worn on less formal trips to court, or to the summer fairs by the lake. But no, Drouina had produced this from her trunk: another court-lady's cast-off. She was, Drouina proclaimed, just my size. Which is most likely the reason why my sister didn't keep this dress for herself. _

_ It is fine, much finer than most of my simple clothes. The fabric is smooth—a linen of a quality that I have only seen used in covering books—and sheer. The sleeves flare out nicely, allowing me to hide my hands. The skirt is wider than I am used to, causing me to trip, which is a normal thing; I am quite clumsy. The chest, however, is a little tight (the court lady being less endowed than myself), as is the waist. Mother says this is perfectly fine. It makes me look trim. _

_ The night moves on. I find myself dissatisfied with my lack of company, and move toward the outer rim of the crowd. Dances, I muse, really serve to remind you how many people occupy the village. It's easy to forget there are upwards of three hundred people there. Especially when you're so often without companionship. _

_ I'm at a point on the edge where there are only three or so layers of bodies separating me from the dancers when my elbow is caught in an icy grip. Pivoting to see my groper, I find my waist is next to be captured, and I'm being snatched, pulled toward the dancing. At first, I think perhaps it is Rich or Gerard, being "good" brothers. But then I realize that the build of my partner is far too short, too small, too slim. I make to shriek, but find that my mouth has a great deal of trouble opening. _

_ Yellowed teeth flash in the firelight, and I realize whose pebbled, narrow face I am staring into. My imp squeezes my waist, tugging me closer. One hand slides from my elbow to my wrist. "Dance with me?"_

_ Looking into the faces of the townsfolk, they clearly are missing Rumplestilskin's odd figure. He's done some sort of enchantment to cast their eyes away. He could do anything to me right now, and nobody would be the wiser. _

_ But looking into those unnaturally large pupils, I know he's not going to do anything like that. Not tonight. _

_ His mood swells with gladness. For some reason, the imp is miles of happy. I wait for him to speak as he leads me though a mad, fast series of twists and twirls. But nothing is forthcoming. Instead, he chants in time with the music. His voice rises and falls, and when he senses me watching him, he begins to play on silly voices. I laugh. _

_ When we've gone through four songs, he slows the pace. I take this as an invitation to speak._

_ "Why have you come?" I refrain from any scolding, just using a tone of mild curiosity. Truly, his coming doesn't bother me a bit. _

_ "It's the solstice," he says simply. "And who doesn't love a good country dance?"_

_ I peer at him. The flickering light of a dying fire casts a shadow over his angular face, and I'm forced to tilt my head. "I don't, usually."_

_ "But tonight?"_

_ No answer. Instead, I slide my hands from his shoulders, running them down the length of his arms, over the curious leather jacket, till I'm at his wrists. We're standing in the middle of the dancers, but they all manage to circumvent us easily enough, so I make no hurry to move. Rumplestilskin blinks, as though trying to discern my expression._

_ "Come," he says, and I find my wrists seized in his long fingers and he's pulling me away from the crowd, away from the lights, away from the village, into the forest. For some time he leads me._

_ Wrists have always been sensitive areas to me. They're easily broken, delicate. People use them when tying up criminals, slaves, or captives. Blood pulses on that spot, and the slim features allow for a person, just the right person, to take you by them and carry you away.__ Under his grip, they arch and bow. When we stop, he traces the blue veins with his rough thumbs. We're deep enough in so that I can faintly hear the sounds of the dance, but the lights are blind to me. I can only just make out the curve of his face in the gloom. _

_ "How long as it been?" he asks. _

_ Since what? I want to know. _

_ This time he's the one who doesn't answer._

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

My tale did not appear to strike her in any way. She found it to be a lovely trifle, something that I shared with her for the sake of sharing. A piece of my made-up cultural past. A pretty, sad story. Nothing broke through. Not a memory, not a name. As we walked up the stairs that evening, I clenched my fist in my pocket, tightly gripped the gold top of my cane, and quietly raged as she bathed. She fell into sleep quickly, but I remained awake. Were it not for the pain in my leg, I would have paced the night away; however, I was forced to resign myself to twisting my fingers and staring at the ceiling.

The dreams, the stories—nothing was breaking through. If anything, they were sending her to a bad place. She's gotten better, over the last several months, now that the dreams have died down, but who knew how long that was to last? Her mind is at war with her sensibilities. I fear one will ultimately be the victor, rather than both coexisting. Which would ultimately destroy…everything.

**-XXX-**

_**Ophelia**_

I wake from the dream in one start, my body thrust upwards from the mattress. But I don't scream. No, this time, I gasp loudly. Oh, _oh, my_. The entire room spins. I sit up, throwing back the duvet. Pillows litter the floor. The scene is set.

In a single beat, as always, Gold is up too. He doesn't bother in attempting to assess the situation; he knows what is at hand. Hands find their way to my temples, pushing back my hair as I retch silently. My lungs and throat are screaming. Gold continues rubbing my forehead and scalp until the heaving stops. Then, he leans over to the bedside table, taking up the water carafe and pouring me a drink into the cut crystal cup. At first I shake my head violently. But he forces the cup into my hands, making me drink. After one long draft, I lower the cup, breathless. Gold shakes his head. Filling the glass again, he aids me in lifting the glass, taking up my hair again.

When the water is gone this time, I sit, shuddering in the middle of the bed. For a time, we sit apart, cautious. Though distressed, I am not crazed—merely tired, and frightened. But this is routine. We'll both be fine in a moment.

Years from now, when we're older, I wonder if perhaps my merciless night terrors might lead my partner to have a heart attack, or something of that nature. It's not a pleasant thought.

"What was it tonight?" he asks wearily, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"A dance," I whisper. "In the village."

"Right." Gold pauses. "Was he there, my dear?"

"As always."

"As always," he echoes softly.

I'm tired. "Let's discuss it in the morning."

We both know we're not going to bring it up again, not tomorrow morning, not ever. These dreams are not breakfast-table topics. Nor will they ever be. We both can concur on that point.

My partner grunts. The covers are pulled up once more. Without a word, I curl against him. Gold leans over to flick off the lamp. The light now extinguished, our breathing slows and we quiet all motions. I snuggle closer. My eyes fall shut heavily. I don't bother in opening them again until morning.

**-XXX-**

**Review, please, my lovelies. Last chapter's reaction was sad, and I hope you guys have something to say about this one. Anything. Seriously.**


	39. XXXIX

To Wish 39

**Alrighty, hopefully this brings us slightly up-to-date with the TV timeline. My betas, ****King of Jesters**** and ****Juliette L'etoile**** did an excellent job, as always! I wrote the second-to-last chapter yesterday…It's hard to believe we're coming to a close. **

**Thanks for the support. Don't forget, I'm cool with answering any questions. Enjoy! **

**-XXX-**

"Have you ever wondered if we all had past lives?" I ask Mary Margaret one evening. I was invited over for a movie and cocoa, seeing as Emma was patrolling. She'd texted me, asking that I do her a special favour by spending the night with our mutual friend. Word of Mary Margaret and David's affair had been released three days prior. The paint still isn't off her car. The town was buzzing about it. I'd kept my distance; everyone also knew she had dumped David shortly after the news was spread. But tonight, my friend needs me. To my surprise, Gold agreed quickly. He didn't seem to mind the rumors in the least. He even said that I ought to spend a "night out of the house."Whatever that meant.

"Like… Buddhists?" Mary Margaret asks. I am forced to recall my conversation with Gold on the same subject.

"I guess, yeah. Sometimes, I just get this feeling…." I drift off. "It's silly, but I feel like I'm doing this all over again."

"'This?'"

"Growing up."

"Ah." My friend's eyes sparkle. She seems sufficiently distracted from thoughts of David-the-douchebag and the whole affair situation. Pride flashes in me. She's going to be okay. "That's part of living, though, right? Feeling as though you're never quite finished learning?"

"Yes, but I get the feeling I've done it before."

It doesn't help that we're watching _Inception. _Mary Margaret shrugs. "Well, depending on how you look at it, I suppose it isn't so far-fetched. I mean, if a ten-year-old can dream it up, too…"

Ten-year-old?

Oh. Henry.

I adjust myself on the couch. "Tell me more about Henry's theory."

**-XXX-**

"Hello, Henry."

The boy looks up from where he sits at the base of a tree trunk, overlooking the bay. I hold my breath as he examines me with big brown eyes. His approval is key. With a sage nod, the kid returns to gazing out at the water. I can't blame him—dressed in worn jeans, a pink button-down, and with my hair is a messy bun, I'm not anyone's marvel. The beach, though, is positively gorgeous. Overcast sky blends into the green-grey water, and the round pebbles of the shoreline make a lovely rolling sound as the waves beat against them. Like marbles hitting one another. A sound of childhood.

"May I sit?" I ask.

"Yeah. Go ahead."

I shimmy down the side of the trunk, crossing my legs. We're at a ninety-degree angle to one another, so I have a good profile of his solemn little face. It's a worried face. Ten-year-olds shouldn't be that worried. My heart aches. Everyone knows that Regina loves the kid, that's painfully obvious, but she's a strict mom. Almost to the point of paranoia. That environment isn't healthy for anyone.

"Your teacher," I begin quietly, "told me that you like to read."

"Yeah. I guess."

I try again. "She said one book was your special favourite. Fairy tales? Do you like fairy tales, Henry?"

He doesn't respond vocally, only shrugs.

"I loved them when I was a kid. I still do. Do you have any particular favourite? I've always enjoyed Cinderella."

"Why don't you work at the library anymore?" he asks abruptly. I freeze. He shifts to face me. "I used to see you there all the time. Now Isabella tells me you work for Mr. Gold. Did you quit?"

"Ah…not technically."

"What's that mean?"

"I was asked to stop working." _Asked_. Psh. I wish. "And Mr. Gold told me he wanted me to work in his shop. With him," I add. No need to let the kid think it wasn't an equal union. "But I still volunteer for the library sometimes."

Henry settled back against the tree. Wistful, he says softly, "I like fairy tales a lot. I used to have a book of them."

"Grimm's? Or maybe Anderson's?"

He scrunches up his nose. "No. There wasn't an author."

"Can you tell me about these stories, Henry?" I ask.

"What do you want to know?"

I hesitate. Eager, he's back to looking at me, big brown eyes blinking as I attempt to compute my question.

"There's a story….I mean….Mary Margaret says you believe the stories are real—"

"They are real!" he says fiercely.

"Whoa, kiddo." I hold up my hands. "I wasn't disclaiming it. It's your opinion. You're entitled to an opinion, right? 'Cause this is America. Have you learned that yet, in school? The Revolution and all that?"

He nods, suspicious.

"I'm not saying you are right or wrong. I just want to know…what makes you think you're right? What's your…proof?"

But he's wary. I lean forward. "Henry, I am not trying to get you to stop believing. But I need to know—_how do you know? _Because, I think, you just may be—"

"I know," he insists. And he proceeds to tell me everything about Ashley, Mary Margaret, David, and many others, providing specific instances that would explain the relation to their fairy tale counterparts. I nod, listening with great intent. He's got a fair point, for the most part. But loads of real-life events mirror that of folklore.

When he slows, I realize that through all the names, there was one significant one he left out. Between Red Riding Hood, Snow White, and Jack from the Beanstalk, I'd followed him. However, there was one townsperson missing.

"Okay, Henry," I say. "But what about Mr. Gold? You didn't say anything about him—"

"Miss Espen?"

Regina Mills stands before us, hands on hips, eyebrows raised. I sit up straighter. She doesn't look angry, merely curious.

"Mayor Mills. I was just taking a walk, and I saw Henry. I thought I might say hi."

"I've missed seeing her around the library," Henry pipes up. I shoot him a thankful glance.

"Ah. Yes. I heard you've moved on to other employment. Tell me, how is it working for Gold? He isn't a town favourite."

My smile is tight. "That may be true, Miss Mills, but I assure you he is an excellent employer and a good man. I thoroughly enjoy the shop."

"Well…that's nice to hear." Her razor gaze turns to Henry. "Come on, Henry, we've got a piano lesson in twenty minutes."

"Okay." He stands. "Nice to see you, Ophelia."

"Miss Espen," his mother reprimands sharply.

"No, no, it's fine," I assure them. "You can call me Ophelia."

They both smile—Henry's bright, Regina's small and thin. Henry dusts himself off and together they walk to the car, one of Regina's gloved hands resting on her son's slim shoulders. I watch them go before standing up and walking back to the library. Though Henry didn't say much, I feel as though I've just learned volumes.

**-XXX-**

Chris welcomes me through the door of my former apartment. He's done little to change the place—all of our neutral furniture is in place, the walls remain a calm yellow. The kitchen is cleaner than usual, a few lamps have been moved, and a photo of me rests on top of the buffet table. I eye it before sitting down on one bar stool. Chris pours me a mug of coffee, putting in the appropriate amount of cream before setting it in front of me.

"It's cheesecake flavoured," he informs me. "So, how have things been with your old creepy pawn-lover?"

"He's not creepy," I say defensively. "And not old, either."

My brother shrugs. "Whatever. How have you been?"

Chris had brought me flowers after the running away incident. Aside from that, we hadn't seen one another much. Between his work and my relationship troubles, balancing enough time to spend even an hour together had been hard. This is the first time in weeks we've had a conversation without a phone line between us, texts, or emails. It's refreshing. A solid reminder of my life before.

"Good," I reply shortly, taking a long draft of my coffee. The mug is the flower-patterned one, the one that looks like it's been done in watercolours. "Things have been…a struggle. But we've worked past them."

"Ah. He wasn't too happy with your rebellious streak, eh?" Chris grins. "I asked him, 'why my sister? She may not look like it, but she's got attitude.'"

"Thanks," I say dryly. "To see such an avid supporter…."

"But things are cool now?"

"Yeah." I lie. "Yeah, I think so."

I don't mention the deeply seeded feeling of discontent, the terror I experienced every night at the hands of my dreams, the settled sense of pure _wrong _that came after the nightmares. I say nothing of the sort. Instead, I lie. Chris takes this without comment. Though, I am fairly certain he knows something is up—he is my brother, after all. He's fairly attuned to me. Most of the time. The memory of my night "jog" months ago, the first time I'd gone to Gold's house to honor our fresh bargain, brings a smile to my face.

But that smile fades as I recall the events of that night. _"Come now, you're a resourceful girl….my most resourceful Ophelia…_ _Silly girl, you have a good intuition…Use what you have, and I am certain it shan't be long before see one another." _

But those words…he'd never said those words. Had he?

"I've missed you," Chris confesses. "Things have been very quiet."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I've missed you too."

"So…with that in mind…" Chris continues, "would it possible to talk your man into extending the pet policy to…dogs?"

I stare. "A, do not call him "my man," he's not a pimp, _ew_; b, we don't talk business in the first place, and c, you're replacing me with a dog?"

"Well, it's easier and cheaper than getting a girlfriend."

I cannot disagree with him there.

**-XXX-**

**Yay? Nay? Reviews are my life blood, so please give! Since spring break has started, I have spent untold hours staring into my Yahoo! Inbox, waiting. It's either that, or answer beauty and health questions on Yahoo! Canada Answers-and I'm not even Canadian.**

**One quick note on the Regina-Henry scene: I personally believe that Regina, in her own way, cares for Henry. That she loves him, in her twisted form of love. She is a good actor, and could be faking it, but her reaction whenever he's been remotely in danger just makes sense for me. She's changed this kid's diaper, cleaned up his puke, tried to keep him from junk food...after 10 years of that, how could you not be attached? True North really sealed the deal for me, too-she clearly wants someone to love and someone to love her. Henry may not fit the bill, but she's trying.**

**That being said, all my love goes to Emma. **


	40. XL

**Many thanks to my supportive readers, and my betas, King of Jesters and Juliette L'etoile. They're gems.**

**We're reaching the end. Scary thought? **

**If you're a Rumpel-Gold/Belle shipper, I highly suggest you check out the one-shot series by TriplePirouette entitled "Breath Symphonies." They're fluffy, bittersweet, and some of the best R/B I've read on here. As I've mentioned before, I also have 7-ish one-shots out, if you're interested.**

**Yes, I am shamelessly plugging. **

**~Enjoy~**

**~Review~**

**-XXX-**

With the distance finally broken, our days have vastly improved. Routines are set, we are happy. Our nights, however…

Mere weeks after we reconcile, the dreams return with a full force, vicious and cruel. My imp now appears solely in a glittering castle filled with stuffy antiques. He, like my dreams, is moody, impatient, and shifting. Never too horrid, though he can become fairly snappish.

Gold has become a reluctant participant in the physical side of our relationship. He seems to be under the impression that contact between us will only spur the nightmares. I'm not so convinced. Even so, it takes a lot to bring about action in bed, or the shower, or the library, or….

He's become moody, which only further supports my theory that they are one and the same; Gold, my love, projected upon this creature of my making. So diverse, yet the similarities are remarkable. Two sides of the same coin, one of my creature. If only he were out of my head….

**-XXX-**

"You're here."

My eyes open. I'm crouched beside the enormous marble fireplace. He is across the room, spinning at the wheel. The table separates us. I stand to remove the heat from my back. I run my hands down my waist and hips, smoothing out the layers of burgundy damask. A mildly curious expression sits on his features, though he has yet to look up from the wheel.

"You were not expecting me?"

"Ah, of course. You're merely…early." He signals to the tall windows. Gold has overtaken the valley. Sunset. Evening. I've never seen this place in daylight before.

"Oh."

"Yes."

Silence engulfs us. I pace beside the fire. My imp continues spinning. The thread flickers and flashes as it works through the turning of the wheel.

"I went to bed early," I say suddenly. "It was, like, four o'clock."

Still not gracing me with a glance, the imp tilts his head, matted locks brushing the collar of his peculiar jacket. "Oh, why so?"

"Well, to be honest," I sigh, "I was hoping to avoid this."

His eyebrows rise. "Thank you, dearie."

"Oh, it's not _you." _

"No, no, I understand."

Another sigh, huffing. I cross to stand beside him. "You know that is not what I meant. I've just…this stresses me."

He doesn't speak. I wait.

"I understand."

"Do you?" I ask quietly. "Because I assure you, I do not. I've tried everything imaginable. New diet, pills, drinks, sleep deprivation, changing when and how and where I sleep. And yet…I still find myself here. With you. Almost every night. And the thing is, I genuinely like you, and I don't mind coming here. It's just, when I wake up…."

I move a hand to my chest, in the center, just over my heart. "It hurts," I say simply. "Like I've been branded. As though someone has torn every hair from my head, strand by strand, like everything dear to me was hit by a Hummer, like _I've _been hit by a Hummer _every single night _and I don't know why. I just want it to stop and for the dreams to stop, even if that means I cannot see you or be in this place, because I am _so sick _of hurting without knowing why or how."

My speech drifts off. The wheel has stopped, still holding the glittering thread. His entire figure is frozen. I cannot see his eyes, but I imagine them to be closed.

"Well then, dearie," he starts softly after a heavy pause. "If that is what you wish…."

"No," I choke. "I _like_ you."

"But your health is far more vital."

"Tell me how to keep the pain away. That is all I want. Nothing more."

He wrenches away from the wheel abruptly. Eye burning, he stalks toward me, boots tapping, mouth stretched widely. "No! That is not how these things work, my dove. You take all of me…or none," he hisses, looming with great malice in his tone. For the first time, I feel genuine fear at the sight of him.

"Oh, my dove. It is only fitting." The imp reaches for my chin, jerking it up with an unkind force, making me stare into the depths of his wretched gaze. "After all, I've spent twenty-eight years of hurt, nearly _three decades_, in the same misery you feel for a few hours each night. All of your doing, my love."

My chin, face, my entire body is thrust away. He appears positively wild, hair and limbs crackling with electricity. I've fallen to hit the stone floor, hard, on my knees. My dress balloons around me.

"What do you mean?" I whisper, drawing my skirt beneath me. "Twenty-eight years? I've not even been alive that long."

Without responding, he stares at me hard and long, his green-grey chest laboring with a frustrated breath while his hands curl and unfurl in time.

"Please," I plead. "Let me understand."

My imp then does a surprising thing; he staggers forward to trip down, landing directly before me. When his eyes are level with mine, I find my chin in his grasp again, more gentle this time. As though I _am_ the dove he keeps addressing me as. My breathing is staggered. But soon I'm not breathing at all. Because his rough hands have cupped my face, thumbs tracing my cheeks, and a hot breath brushes briefly against my flesh, ghosting warmth.

I gasp softly as a pair of thin lips lower, pressing to mine, making a sound like those described in romance novels. Really sort of revolting. Fluffy. Breathy. Gentleness like this, while wholly unexpected, is also against all nature he has displayed before. I mean, he's been tender, yeah, but not in this way, not nearly so…so….

When those lips move against mine, I follow suit without thinking. It feels natural. Right. Lightheaded, I go into the kiss with heavy passion. I don't spare a single thought for my love, lying next to my physically-unconscious self. Indeed, I fall into the demon's embrace without a problem. We kneel on the stone, moving in time, our bodies heatedly pressed into one another in a rushing haze.

Until I pull away, filled with warmth to look into the lovely being I've just been macking for the last ten minutes. Bright green-gold eyes are trained on mine. His long, grey-gold fingers twitch as he waits. Gold_. Gold._ Always…

**-XXX-**

_"Can you think of no one?"_

_"They say, some people, that dreams are memories. If that is true…then what must your past be?"_

"_Ophelia….do you hate him?"_

I bolt upright in bed. Oh, how could I hate him when I shared a bed and dreams with him each night? How could this have taken me months to figure out? I mean, it was obvious; it was there before me the entire time. Every night, they were set before me to compare. Like mix-and-match, the game kindergarteners played with picture-cards. _Which one of these things go together? _

_"Can you think of no one?" _

This is not resolved, however. Somehow, this has to do with Henry's curse. Reincarnation. Fairy stories. But I don't understand….

_"Please. You know him. You know who he is…who he can be…Ophelia…."_

Only, I hadn't. And I still don't. I don't know who he was, or is, or any of that. All I know is Mr. Gold, the tyrant and tease I've lived with these past months. I couldn't possibly know who he translated to.

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

She is in pain. Physical, mental, or some combination.

I am roused by the shuddering body beside me. Without a thought, I rise, pulling her to me, ready to commence with the ritual of comfort. But tonight is different. Ophelia struggles out of my arms, her tears and cries increased by my most gentle touch. She recoils to the edge of the mattress, the corner furthest from me. A full moon peaks through the window. Red-tinted orbs stare out past mussed copper locks. Mistrust and fear tinges every muscle of her body.

At a loss, my hands remain outstretched. "Ophelia?"

This person, the frightful person who is displaying an unusual wariness is not familiar to me. This person has never shared my bed.

"A dream," she spits shakily. "Another dream."

I had surmised as much. "What was different?" I ask softly. "What happened?"

She ducks her head. Left to wait, I lower my hand. The pause is pregnant. Ophelia's skin is puckered with goosebumps, the neck of her loose cotton shift falling off of her pale shoulders. She had long rejected the modest high-neck woolen gowns I had filled her draws with. Not that I object. The mere sight of her bare skin sends sensations throughout my limbs. I ache to touch, to reassure, to lavish her cool flesh and drive away these darkened dreams.

"He was there. As always. We were talking and he kissed me. Just…kissed me_. _Like it was normal. And I realized that he is _just like you. _It's mad, really, but deep down you're essentially the same person. I thought for so long it was projected. It's a legitimately psychological thing, you know. But no. That's not it at all. He's like you. He _is _you."

Speechless, I watch from where I lie, propped against the pillow. Her breathing remains labored; she glares. At a loss, I can do nothing but struggle to find something to say. This reaction had not been anticipated. When planning her recovery, the dreams were—well, they weren't in the plans. They'd just started happening. I eventually decided that they could not harm her any more than any of my other strategies. Clearly I was mistaken. She was hurt. Very hurt.

This behavior, this clear hostility and mistrust, was never in the plans. She was supposed to be relived. Happy. Things were supposed to be bloody _fantastic. _Ophelia was supposed to fall into my arms, cry out for joy, express the deepest of positive emotions. Anger swells within me. My fists ball against my slides, twisting in the sheets. _"No…._" This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out!

"Ophelia," I rasp. My leg is frozen in a coiled shock of pain as I jolt forward. "I've no idea—"

"No!" she shakes her head, hissing. "I can see it now. When did you…I don't understand, Gold? Am I going mad? Or is Henry right?"

My blood turns solid. I've faltered in reaching for her. "Henry?"

Tear-stain cheeks quiver. She blinks. "Henry's theory. You know, about us? About the town, how this life is just a dream, that we seriously live in some magic fairy land, and one day we'll all wake up once the curse is broken?"

The boy is nearly on the mark. I would be impressed if I were not so angry. But I don't respond. Ophelia clasps her hands, closing her eyes, pleading with me.

"Please. Tell me none of this is real. Tell me I'm just delusional. Gold, I am going mad. I don't understand. It all seems so real, so vivid. But it can't be, or….or I'm…oh, God. Tell me…tell me…."

Loss leaves me to consider her begs. It is time. A decision must be made. The dreams are driving her to near insanity. But is it really the time for her to know the truth behind the curse? Can I justify that honesty?

No. No, I cannot.

It will simply drive her mad.

"Of course it is not real," I sooth, finally taking her into my arms, reaching forward, running my hands through her copper-coloured locks. She readily falls into my embrace. Her shoulders heave. Regret fills me from toes to tips. My body screams _no, no, no! _But this is the only way. "You're not mad, my love, just imaginative. It's not real, just in your mind…not real at all….."

I keep up the chants all night, well into the early morning. She falls into sleep once more, slumped against me. I pray that we might wake with the memory of this night gone entirely. But it is unlikely.

**-XXX-**

**Oh, I am evil. I imagine a great many of you will not be happy with me. Your expectations have been dashed, and I am sorry, but it simply had to be done. Go ahead with your angry reviews/questions. **

**Don't you just love a good twist? **


	41. XLI

**XXXXI**

**I thought about waiting till Saturday or Sunday to update. But then ber1719 returned and reviewed the crap out of the last five or so chapters. So, for her sake, I'm cutting the cliff hanger short. Though, I have a feeling she will not be happy with me, regardless...**

**Thank you for the support. Even so, while it's great to see alerts and faves, reviews are my true love. Please, please, please...**

**Shout out to my betas, King of Jesters and Juliette L'etoile. They have been complete gems! **

**And all my regulars, BlueMoonOfScreamingSilence, Opera123, Pam, Gabrille, Tori, Rayvah, Hope and Love, Sakura, Narnian Phantom Stallion, and Old Romantic. I'm sorry if I missed anyone, I just browsed the reviews briefly. You've been amazing to last 41 miserable chapters of cliffies and the like. **

**-XXX-**

_**Six months later….**_

My nails make light sounds as they drum against the countertop. Ruby glances back from the soda fountain curiously. I flash her a quick, reassuring smile. She smiles back with brightly pursed lips, turning back to filling out her orders. I look down at my plate, restraining a sigh. Playing the waiting game has never been my forte. I'm naturally impatient. Even though I've been here a mere ten minutes, I'm edgy.

The bell above the door sounds, and I whip around, twirling my bar stool to view the diner's newest patron. A dewy-faced Mary Margaret blinks from the threshold, startled by my quick motion. My face falls slightly, though I am happy enough to see the schoolteacher. She crosses to sit next to me.

"Hey, Mary Margaret."

"Hi, Ophie."

I wince at the nickname. "Ready for the new school year?"

With the dawn of August came the beginning of a new school year. Now it's Mary Margaret's turn to wince with the thought. I smirk lightly into my mug of coffee.

"Yes, I suppose so. Only five more days. I guess I'm just enjoying my final morning of sleeping in on a weekday."

"Oh, that's right." I'm fortunate enough to be allowed a considerable amount of time for sleeping in, if I so desired. My partner didn't necessarily need me to attend to the shop, and my newly reinstated position at the library didn't require me to come in till twelve, and therefore I could snooze till eleven. It was a nice lifestyle.

We continue to chat lightly until my ever-wandering eyes distract her. She catches my gaze.

"Waiting for someone?" she guesses wryly. "Or simply looking for a better conversational partner?"

I laugh. "Of course not. Though, you're right, I am waiting for a lunch date."

"Date?" Her eyes alight. "As in….?"

Snorting, I lower my mug. "Hardly. Just one of those things, you know."

"Oh, I know. So, is this date perhaps late because of…."

"His bum leg?" Grinning, I swing on my stool childishly. "Maybe. Probably. That, or he's had some legitimate business."

Ruby stops beside us, passing a tall Diet Coke to Mary Margaret over the counter. "Nobody goes in his shop," she says scornfully. "Unless they're desperate. Sorry, Ophelia."

"No offense taken," I assure her. "I don't really think people around here could afford most of that stuff, anyways."

"And your boyfriend is sort of an ass," Ruby tells me bluntly.

I wince again, though not because of the profanity—I've no problem with that, and it's true, anyways—but rather, because of the title. _"Boyfriend." _It still doesn't feel natural. Too simple of a term for such a complex relationship.

"He's not so bad, Ruby," Mary Margaret defends softly. "You see them together, and with her he's so…."

But she drifts off, either lacking words or leaving it up to the imagination. We all take long drafts from our drinks. The bell chimes again. I reenact my previous whip-and-spin. It's Henry. He beams around, thoughtfully waving to all that occupied Granny's. In the months since he'd escaped Regina's custody, the kid had vastly improved in general mood and height, as if his adopted mother had somehow squelched his growth. Nearly eleven, he's a right beanpole.

He takes a booth in the back and Ruby slides out from behind the counter to take his order, her hips swaying in the short vermillion cut-offs. Mary Margaret catches my eye, grinning. I shake my head.

The bell goes off again but I miss it, as I'm too focused on Mary Margaret's latest Emma update. The sheriff has had her hands full over the last several months, growing accustomed to her new position in the town, feeling out her power, winning over the locals. Mary Margaret has missed her a great deal.

"Ladies," a cool voice behind us cuts in. "Would you care to…."

I turn swiftly (well, as swiftly as one can turn on a bar stool) to see the sparkling eyes of my housemate, level with mine. Dressed in a pristine jet two-piece, black tie and flaming magenta button-down, he looks incredibly fresh. Beside me, Mary Margaret has stiffened and shrunken away. But I surge forward, lacing my arms around his neck. His legs buckle slightly, yet he smiles. Without pausing, I kiss him heartily.

Months ago, I would've balked at the slightest thought of macking Gold in front of anyone, much less in broad daylight in a public place. However, that was months ago. This is now. And now, I couldn't think of restraining myself. There is no point in waiting—I've taken control. I'll kiss him when I kiss him. Which is frequent and fraughtless.

When I pull away, a satisfied little smile rests on the pawnbroker's face. Mary Margaret blushes.

"You're late," I tell him, a slight scold in my tone.

"Busy man, m'dear," he reminds me. "And it looks as though you've already taken the liberty of ordering…and eating…."

"I'm on my break," I respond. "And it was just pie."

Mary Margaret makes to stand. "I better go. Ah…Emma might like lunch. Rube," she calls across the diner, "can I get a BLT to go?"

Clutching a brown paper bag to her chest, the schoolteacher exits with a shy wave five awkward minutes later. Bemused, Gold shakes his head.

"I honestly do not know what has convinced that girl to fear me. But she is wonderfully discreet."

"Yes," I agree. "She is rather wonderful."

He settles, picking up a menu—that he's probably browsed several hundred million times—and scanning over the plastic shield to read the lunch selections. I can already guess he'll order the beef stew or the pork chops. After several seconds, he lightly tosses the menu onto the counter.

"Having a good day?"

"Reasonably," he says shortly. "I've received a new order of books. Some are quite horridly damaged."

"Tempting me?" Grinning, I lean forward. "Trying to seduce me back into your musty shop?"

"I'll have you know it is in no way musty. After all, last week you decided to dust the place, using that delightful lemon-scented goo. People keep coming in and asking me if I have a marionberry pie in the oven."

Pie sounded good, and I look guiltily to the empty plate on the counter before me.

"I left early this morning," he begins causally after Ruby takes his order, "and I didn't get to see you. How did you sleep?"

I run one hand through my hair, twisting a few strands around my bare ring and pointer fingers. "Wonderfully. I dreamed of a…" I frown. "A castle in the sky. And a sandstorm."

Amused, he folds his hands. "A castle in the sky?"

"Yes. It had Christmas lights."

"Ah. Naturally."

We eat, converse, and I depart thirty minutes later for my job. He's still not finished his pork chops, so I peck him affectionately on the cheek and whisk myself from the diner, leaving him with the bill. Not that he cares.

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

Sheriff Swan soon graces the diner with her presence less than thirty seconds after Ophelia leaves. She eyes me before plunking down on one of the red vinyl-topped stools. Ruby is quick to serve her a mug of coffee and slide a menu across the bar. Occupied, I now have the chance to observe her. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes. She's lost weight, gained tight joints, and shifts uneasily on her stool.

"Miss Emma," I say quietly.

She looks up slowly, lacking fire and venom in her gaze. "Gold."

Concern tinges my tone. "Are you quite alright, my dear?"

The young woman barks a short laugh. "Yeah. As alright as I could be. Tell me, Gold, how did your girlfriend stop those crazy dreams?"

I freeze in my seat. "Dreams?" I ask delicately.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Mary Margaret told me about them. The repeating sequence. Did they ever go away?"

My mind flashes to late nights of screams, dry heaves over the edge of the mattress, shaking shoulders and limbs, gooseflesh, and crying. So much crying. The pillows ended up being so tearstained, so salted, that they had to be replaced. Months and months of debilitating nightmares. Could Emma be experiencing the same sort of visions? Self-inflicted, or the result of timely realizations? After all, the eve of our release is quickly approaching….

"She no longer has them," I say shortly, my tone quiet. "She is…cured."

"How did she do it?" she asks. "I'm at my wit's end. Every night...they come and go. Barely makes any sense."

"I…"

I'm at a loss. My denial had but a stopper on Ophelia's nightly horrors. But such a swift result may not be possible in Miss Swan's case. Gently, I explain how I am unaware of precisely what prevented further dreams, but suggest a visit to Dr. Hopper's office. Archie can, if anything, prescribe a cocktail that might help fade the nightmares. Though, at this point, it may be best to leave them alone.

"I hope this helps. Ophelia was greatly troubled by her nightmares. Things were getting out of hand when they finally stopped plaguing us. I hope, for your sake, that they are no more than a fraction of what she suffered."

"That bad?"

Inclining my head, I slip out a small smile. "Yes. That bad."

"So…they're gone now?"

"Yes. She cannot even recall them, for the most part. They're very vague to her. Which is entirely fine with us."

Emma purses her lips, brows rising. She may be under the weather, but her senses are as keen as ever. "I thought you believed in all of that dream stuff. That they hold the secret to past lives? From the sound of it, Ophelia was living out that fairy tale world of Henry's."

"Curious."

"Yeah, curious," Emma repeats slowly.

**-XXX-**

**Soooooooo...**

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**Review me your rage! Your frustration! Your love!**


	42. XLII

**To Wish XXXXII**

**Many thanks to my betas, King of Jesters and Juliette L'etoile! They've done a lovely job. Also, thanks for the support. It's brilliant, my loves. Sorry for the wait. **

**We get a futher peek of Regina in this chapter. I felt the need for more interaction.**

**Two more!**

**-XXX-**

_**Gold**_

Lunch finished, I return to the shop for yet another dull afternoon. The last of many, I hope.

Things are coming to fruition. Emma has reached the book, she's pieced together the puzzle; we are nearing the eve, if not on it. Anticipation pulls me forward every second. Soon, I shall be home. Regina's reign will be toppled. We shall be free. Twenty-nine years.

_Twenty-nine years._ Just under twenty-eight watching my partner from a distance, watching the town around me drown in time, observing Regina's gleeful manipulation. Then, Emma. The savior. Snow and Charming's tot, all grown up, here to save us all. Emma, the chosen one, come back to rescue the fairy tale people and restore our land.

And then, Ophelia.

I remember approaching her in the newly-installed library, watching her fiddle with the feather duster, standing at the top of stairs, out of breath but in the best way possible. Seeing her thinly-veiled apprehension, then her excitement over the prospects of properly working with books again. I can clearly recall the profound sense of fear that came with her distance. My human heart throbbed as she pulled away from me, as she worked under my roof and shared a space with me.

"_And seeing as we're working with one another, you can call me Ophelia."_

"_As you wish."_

Settling behind the counter, I smile with memory. She was so guarded, yet naïve. To bring her into my home was relatively simple. She almost made it _easy. _

Rain patters on the sidewalk outside. It's the last of our sweet summer rains. I watch the droplets collect on the windows. The pavement darkens slowly to a jet black, rather than the faded grey. Further outdoors, various townsfolk rush around, attempting to avoid the downpour. It's not nearly bad enough for such blatant mayhem—raised newspapers, umbrellas, and the like. You can't blame them; tense as the town has been as of late, a little rain surely cannot help.

How these months have been a comfort to me. Going back now might not be so hard. I wish she knew…that we could be together in this. Clearly her health was at risk, though, and it was not an option. Still, only a little while now. I can be patient.

But others cannot.

"Gold, I'm surprised to find you here."

Distracted by my tally (keeping the books is not a highly enjoyed task, but it does consume one's focus easily), I did not hear the door chime. Regina Mills stands in the middles of my shop, her hands placed on her slim hips. The room crackles with her dark energy. Lacquered nails glitter in the dim light, as do her liquid black eyes. Straightening my spin, I stare into those depths. In the months since Emma's arrival, the mayor has been slipping oh so lightly. Though she appears pressed and prim today, it's not hard to see in the details—a slight run in her hose, the chipped nails, the pallor—that her fading power is reflected in her very person.

I smile. "I do not see how it should be such a surprise, Regina. It is, after all, my shop."

"Oh, indeed," she agrees readily. "However, given the coming circumstances, I would've thought you would want to spend _every _waking moment with your beloved. It's what I would do."

And yet, where is Henry? My lips curl of their own accord.

"Right. And of what circumstances are you referring?"

Her eyes flicker down, then up again. "I believe you're aware. I need not further explain. Except…perhaps…." She shifts slightly, relevance in her tone. "You must know, once the clock strikes midnight, all must go back to where they belong. _Exactly _where they belong."

My skin chills with these words, but I do not allow my expression to alter in the slightest. She's bluffing. Merely bluffing. I created the curse, I know its repercussions. I do not fear.

Coldly, I incline my head. "Good to know. Anything else I can help you with today, Ms Mills?"

A slight smirk pulls at the corners of her ruby lips. "No, thank you, that's all. Good day, Mr. Gold."

She exits, leaving behind the distinct scent of roses and malice.

Six o'clock comes, and Ophelia does not. She is late, not terribly, but tardy nonetheless. The rain has yet to cease. I suppose that may have hindered her. So, I return to the back of the shop. Inventory, again. Pointless, but something must take up my time. After twenty minutes, I hear the bell (I was listening for it this time) and limp to the front to find an adorably soaked part-time librarian waiting for me, shivering and cursing and getting the carpet soaked. We have some blankets in the back, and in no time she's warm again.

**-XXX-**

_**Ophelia**_

After kissing my way up his chest, I pay particular attention to his throat, nipping and sucking, teething against the tanned flesh. From beneath me, he groans. I restrain a giggle. I'm not a school girl; this act must be given respect. We're not having hot monkey sex. We're—we're—

I don't know what we're doing. All I know is, when he strokes me through the fabric of my underwear, I buckle against him, breathily sighing as his fingers nimbly grind into me. Soon, he's moved passed the waistband, dipping into me, moving at a constant rate, curling those long fingers, thumbing my more sensitive places. When the fingers retract, only to be plunged back with beautiful force, I gasp loudly with unrestrained pleasure. Then the digits are replaced with a flicking tongue that lazily caresses my inner thigh for minutes on end, torturing me into oblivion.

He finally sits back. "I've got you ready. Now bring yourself to."

"No, I want—"

He puts a finger to my lips. It's damp, smelling of sex and sweat. "I will. After. I want to watch."

So I fall into myself. His glowing eyes are enough to encourage my body to react. After several minutes of teasing, I arch against the headboard, murmuring his name. Breathy sighs escape my lips every so often as I stroke and rub. Finally I release a pent-up cry of emotion, a wordless sound that he relishes. Soon, I am under his hand again.

**-XXX-**

Tonight we sort of fell into each other. It wasn't expected. I was just drying the bowls we used for dinner (being Molly's night off, it's the only day of the week I can get away with doing legitimate chores) when he hobbled up behind me and started brushing my neck with those pianist -fingers. Not long after, I found myself seated on the granite countertop, kissing him long and hard. It only went up from there. Literally.

This came after a very long day. After our lunch, I started my shift at the library. Between a snappish Regina and frightfully quiet Henry, Isabella and I were going positively mad. Regina's hissy fit caused us to reshelf most of the children's section. Then our desk girl was sick. After running the desk, and after closing, I had to clean the second floor. And once I did finally leave, I was forced to walk in the rain. My shoes were entirely soaked. It was not a pleasant feeling.

According to my housemate, his day wasn't much better. Regina graced him with a visit as well. The shop was busy, besides, and his inventory was severely screwed up with the mayor's arrival. He'd had to bring the books home. Through dinner, Gold was tense. He was acting odd in general. Expectant. Quiet and pensive. All night I observed him, trying to clue myself into what it could possibly stem from. Not necessarily a _bad_ mood; he was giving me an impression of deep concentration.

Though, once we'd gotten to the bedroom, I swiftly forgot about this. It was not hard, believe me.

Once we finish, Gold nuzzles my neck. I cling to him, sighing against his skin. Gentle fingers find my face, tracing my jaw and bones. He's propped up on one elbow, a curious expression having taken his features. I stare up, blinking. It's late, and I'm feeling drowsy. Consciousness becomes a struggle, especially as he drags his fingers over my flesh and hums softly.

"Gold," I whisper. Darkness creeps to the edge of my vision. Which, seeing as it's nighttime, is not so unusual. Yet there is an unnatural softness to it. Like clouds. Or smoke.

"Yes, my dear?" he asks, sounding impossibly distant. But he's right next to me, less than a foot away. Indeed, I can feel his weight bearing down. The dark surges. I want to sit up, but there is a pressure holding me down, down, down. "Ophelia?"

"I—" I battle the weight, pushing myself up. His alert face comes into view again. "What's—I—"

Relief colours his wide hazel eyes. "Nothing, my love, nothing," he croons. "You're perfectly alright. We're almost there."

"Where?"

He doesn't respond, but lets his knuckles skim my cheek, the other hand catching mine and squeezing tightly. My vision blurs and darkens again. Soon, I've fallen into darkness. My mind strains against the night, one question repeating over and over and over.

_Where? _

**-XXX-**

**Questions? Comments? Please review 'em! I always answer. **


	43. XLIII

**Quick note: when we started, Ophelia was 24. She is now 25. Roughly a year has passed since the start of this story, give or take a month or two. Also, have any of you read Robin McKinley's **_**Beauty**_**? What about her follow-up, **_**Rose Daughter? **_**Just…keep those books in mind….**

**One more thing-there was a question of how much longer this was going to be, where they are going, etc.. To this, I can only answer "…."**

**There have also been a lot of questions from people who don't have an account/haven't logged in. I'm not in the habit of answering those in note. If I can't simply PM you, or if it's shortly going to be answered, I won't bother. You can either get an account, or FB me from the fan community group. I suggest an account?**

**Thanks to my betas, King of Jesters, and Juliette L'etoile!**

**To Brightfrost, who is probably long gone from this site, but whose review four years ago on my extremely shitty Artemis Fowl piece gave me so much hope. **

**-XXX-**

When I open my eyes, everything is…_back._ From where I stand I can see the palace. The forests. The great river. The mountains.

Everything from my dreams. Those…dreams? My mind takes a minute, but soon it's at the tip of my tongue. The ones I stopped having months, the ones I was told to forget. They're faint traces now. I struggle to recall...

A forest clearing. Dank dungeons. A glittering pair of wide gold eyes, skin that sparks like a stone under sunlight. Dancing. Full-faced moons.

But I'm no longer in the dungeons. I stand outdoors, atop some sort of hill in the midst of the woods. The sky ahead is a clear indigo. Twilight. Evening. I realize with a pang that it's the crest of the valley where our clearing rests. Our clearing. Where we met for twelve months. Where we read, and sang, and said the most horrid things. My head drops to my hands. Oh—this is too much. This surely has to be another dream, a terrible dream. Because this world can't be real—can it? Or is it the other one that is true? We're so mixed up-

_We? _My mind keeps spouting the word, but I don't realize why. No one is with me. I am alone. Entirely. Alone and so, so very confused.

My head is a dizzying haze of melded memory. A mixture of my life in Storybrooke and my…other life? Here? It's twisted together in one mass of confusion, a rush of noise and colour and motion all together in one blur. They're together, two lives, two sides, and I do not know which to be true. I _cannot _know which to be true.

A soft sound falls behind me. I look up to see _him_ for the first time. And I freeze.

He's not quite Mr. Gold. This face is a little more ageless. The hair is just slightly wavy, as opposed to his straight locks. He's still in a suit, but it's…different. Older-looking. Tattered. Even as he moves, it's changing still. The eyes have gone dark. When he walks toward me, I can see that the limp has seemingly disappeared.

_Rumpelstilskin _my mind whispers as he comes into the fading light. Where did that come from, I begin to ask, but more whispers arise, ashy and soft. _Rumpelstilskin the imp…the demon. _Indeed, I can begin to see the imp in him, now than ever.

Every aspect of him is altering. Second by second, his hair is waving thickly. The suit is slowly changing to…leather? Reddening, turning to a rust colour. Somehow, I'm struck with the acknowledgement that it is dragon skin, which is preposterous,; for there is no such thing. And now the eyes—-more green now than hazel—-are staring down at me. As though I am the marvel.

Without a word, I am lifted up to be spun around in a dizzying circle. Mr. Gold laughs freely, loud and merry. Familiar as I am with his rang of chuckles, this is far louder and far more natural than any I've heard from him before. I cling to his shoulders. This must be a dream. Just like all the others.

"Ophelia, Ophelia," he whispers, sweeping us in circles. "We've won. I told you, didn't I? We'd be together, in _any_ land."

I drag my feet, purposefully stopping his dance. "Where are we?"

He stares. Cups my face. Gazes into my eyes, his wide pupils hard. Those eyes….so familiar. But—-but _not_. "We're home, of course. Back again."

_Back again._

Pulling away, I look to the forest, the castle. It's a tall white structure, with elegantly slim towers. Not the circular one. I've seen it before, at night, with fireworks behind it. I begin babbling. "This is all from my dreams. Those dreams that you kept away. I would wake up, remember? Sometimes, crying. As if my heart had been broken. I haven't had them for months and months. But…they were just dreams. You told me they were dreams."

"No," replies Gold slowly, moving in front of me. "They were memories. Of _here_. Ophelia, don't you remember? Surely now you do. We were together, and then the curse came and…I remembered, _I remembered;_ but you had forgotten me. So I had to wait," he continues, hands tightening and the crow's feet surrounding his mystical eyes scrunching together, furthering the wrinkles. "For years and years and years, hoping you'd _see _me, hoping you would recall what—-but no, it never happened, I see. But we're here now…"

I am pulled with him as he turns out to the scenery around us,; glorious slate mountains, emerald forests, a rushing river of crystal white, a whole world sitting out there to be discovered. He gestures grandly. "And you should remember."

And I do. Sorta.

"I'm sorry," I say honestly. "But...no."

"Everyone else ought to. That's how the curse was designed. How _I _designed it," his fist clench, mouth tightening at the corners. "Once broken, every person would remember, wake up. Things would go back, as they once were."

Curse? This sounds vaguely familiar. Yet…

"I had dreams. Of some place like this. But all they were," I lower my voice, withdrawing my hands from his. Gold's remain extended in mid-air, abandoned and empty. He doesn't retract them, merely waits. "Just dreams. I mean, at the time they felt so…solid. Tangible. I could've sworn it was. But Gold… this cannot be real, I must be—"

Urgent, he surges upon me. "But it is not. We're here." My hand is taken up again, pressed to his sharp cheeks. "And you can feel me. I'm real, . Just as much as you are. Don't you remember? The moon? The songs? Your cloak?"

My clothing is plucked, and I realize I'm dressed in some mauve dress-thing. It's floor-length, old-fashioned. A creamy sort of lace lines the hems of the sleeves. My waist is drawn in with a tight corset—I can feel it digging into my ribs—and soft leather shoes are on my feet. I am already missing jeans. And my hair…no longer brushing my shoulders, it runs past my shoulder blades, fiery as ever. I feel upwards, finding a pair of combs to be holding the tumbling strands back. An image of antique gold combs set with crystals and dark rubies surfaces in my mind's eye, as though I'd picked them out myself this morning.

But that's not the most interesting part of my wardrobe; a golden brocade cloak rests on my shoulder, cascading down my back. In the moonlight it shimmers faintly, a lovely combination of gold and silver threads giving the fabric depth and life.

"Now I must be dreaming." I've never owned anything so beautiful in my life. Not even while living with Gold. The Gold that stands before me now.

He laughs lightly, his mood changing on the spin of a dime. "I made that, my love. Do you recall? And this—" He-" he flicks his wrist once, and an orb of cheerful aqua light bounce in the middle of his palm. "—-as well?"

Spinning. I can recall now. He would spin straw, sometimes, and it would turn to gold thread. This must be the fruit of his labors. I stroke the smooth fabric.

"A little," I admit. "But not much."

We're silent as the words sink in. Gold-Rumpelstilskin stares at me, wide eyes still unfamiliar. They're a strange cross between the man and the imp I've gotten to know so well over these months. He's not quite Gold, but too much human to be Rumpelstilskin.. Half-and-half, really. Though, even now a transformation is working its way slowly through his body, like a poison in his veins. His eyes are now flickering between the green-hazel, though they remain trained on me, entirely focused. I stare straight back into them, wondering if he sees any changes in me. Am I the Ophelia he wanted? The old one? Or am I…new? Can he still want me, even though I don't—-I'm not—-

"Of course," he whispers fiercely. I'd forgotten; he has some ambiguous psychic ability . "Of course I want you. I've never stopped."

"But I…"

I don't _know _anything. Nothing about any curses, or fairy tales, or happy endings, or mischievous imps who kidnap girls into their dreams. Storybrooke felt right, but so does this place. And while my memories wage war in my head, while both places fight for dominance, I feel forced to turn to the only thing I can remotely trust:; my imp.

"We'll make it work. Whatever it takes, I shan't turn you out," he vows in a low voice, forehead against mine. "We can build some sort of life here. A different one. A _better_ one."

"I feel like I don't even know you,"." I say. "You're Gold, I know, and…but…."

"Ophelia."

The name and nothing else. That's all. Just like in the hospital. It's deep and sad, and so impossibly _him. _In the course of one full minute we're starting at one another. Then, as always, I find myself buried in his hollow chest, inhaling deeply. Pine, sage, smoke, just a hint of, if this makes any sense, magic. Gold is quaking, his arms so tight around me, heart pounding so loudly. He's just as frightened and confused as I am. After all, he made this curse. He was prepared for the outcome, for a specific end to our trials. Yet, things didn't quite work out as he'd planned. For a brief second I feel all the air leave my body. My lungs stop the cycle they've so diligently established over the course of my twenty-five years. And as cliché as it sounds, my heart—-the one in my head, not in my chest—takes control.

What could I do without him? Where could I go? I've got a family here, I think, if my memories serve me. Brothers and sisters. But they're so distant now. Gold is here. I came here with him, I didn't land in the small upper room of my parents' cottage—-parents, I have living parents here!-nor did he end up in the musty dungeons of Snow and James' palace. We came here. Together.

That's got to mean something. In the grand scheme of the universe, that's a sign.

Or something.

I feel a little desperate to let him know. I mean, he needs to know.

"Gold, I know this is going to be different. But, it can work. Because, well, I…you know."

Judging from his amused expression, he does know. "No need to say it, love," he breathes. "No need at all."

With that said, he kisses me full on the mouth. Again and again and again until his skin is the colour of a moss-covered lake.

**-XXX-**

**I decided I needed to add the curse detail from Skin Deep in somewhere. People kept asking if it still applied. We're entirely on AU territory now, but I want to stay vaguely true to the show. **

**BUT…I switched it up a bit. Much like in **_**Rose Daughter. **_** His curse is fully applied, intact as ever. He's green-gold once more. An imp again. **

**This isn't me saying that Ophelia isn't his "true love," not at all. This is true love—-**

**-because true love applies no matter what. Douche bag or grey-skinned. But things could change. After all, there is….**

**One more left, m' dears. I'll give you one more guess as to what story/stories I've modeled this after. **

**Please review!**


	44. XLIV

**Sorry for the wait, there were some editing issues.**

**All info regarding ivory polishing was from the Ornamental Turning Center. The ring info I googled months ago, so…I don't really recall.**

**Props to my betas, King of Jesters, Juliette, OldRomantic, who was a pillar when I was freaking out, and all of my long-time readers. You're fantastic. **

**As I've said before, I don't know where I'll go after this. If enough of you wanted a continuation, I might work a few short things through season 2, or a sequel that picks up from this last chapter. There are a few ideas bouncing around my head, but we'll just have to see. Right now I'm on an HP kick, and an on-and-off Belle/Rumpel one too. **

**Oh, and to answer that question, ****Mr. Carlyle told me his favourite colour-which is dark green. **

**-XXX-**

_**One year and a month later….**_

The moon, high and bright, weeps brilliantly onto the dark blanket of sky on which she rests. Her face is full, white and as fair as fresh snow. Tonight, I do not envy her in any way. For I am content as I shall ever be, sitting on my windowsill that overlooks the gardens below, and the high stone wall. Lights of the city just beyond the valley's hills pinprick the sweeping landscape, looking to be reflections of the stars above. The lake beside the town in one piece of smooth, dark glass, with mist rising over and milling to the muddy banks. It is a warm, beautiful night. I fiddle with the ivory handle of my brush, fingering the intricate loops and knots. A fine example of craftsmanship. I recall watching one silversmith working with such goods at the city fair when I was a child. He'd shown us how to polish and carve into the soft element. It was a gift from the far east, inset with jade and polished with pumice powder, till it shone even in candlelight.

As I brush, I sing lowly to myself.

"_I'd sell my rod, I'd sell my reel,_

_I'd sell my only spinning wheel, _

_To buy my love a sword of steel._

_Go, go, go my love_

_Go quietly and peacefully_

_Go to the door and flee with me_

_And may you go safely my dear."_

"I am grateful that you would wish me such luck, dearie," a voice from below calls lightly. "Though I must admit I hope you haven't sold _my _spinning wheel. It is rather precious to me."

Gasping, I tug my robe back 'round my shoulders, where it had fallen. The intruder laughs. He steps from the shadows, his skin glistening in the fair moonlight.

"Nice habit you have of leaning out of open windows. A pleasant welcome for a weary traveler." His unnatural eyes linger on my collarbone. "Especially if you're keen on wearing scraps as those."

I've never been a blushing redhead, so I scowl. "A warning would be nice."

"Not nearly as nice as seeing you in such a lovely tizzy," drawls my imp. "As I said, a fine welcome."

"Are you coming up?"

"Momentarily," he assures me. "But first, I must see to the garden."

I smile, knowing what is to come. "Alright."

When I turn from the window, mere seconds later, he's right there, two feet in front of me, brandishing a peony with a dark purple center, radiating cream-coloured petals on the outside. Unique, nothing I've quite seen before, even in these extensive gardens. The bloom is brushed against my stomach, whispering across the turquoise silk of my nightgown.

He has informed me that, due to the curse held on him, we're never going to be able to conceive. Nevertheless, I often catch a wistful gaze lingering on my soft abdomen. Rumpelstilksin promised that he will do everything within his power to find us a solution, or an alternative. At the moment, when my love isn't traveling, he is in his observatory tower, attempting to find a way to ensure us a child. While children are more often than not the center of his dealings, Rum is insistent that we produce one on our own. He has fiercely worked to find something, some potion or spell that might enable me to bear. Being the Dark One, his magic ought to ensure anything. It's only a matter of time, he assures me.

I'm fine with this. I can wait a bit longer. Twenty-six, partnered with a being that is well over a thousand years old, I will take all the time I can. As I've told him before, it's not quite time.

But Rum is eager. More than eager. He wants this so badly. I don't have the heart to tell him my reluctance. Maybe when he finds the solution we'll have that talk, but no need to let him down now.

"How was your journey?" I accept the flower, burying my nose deep in its petals.

"It was fair. Clear skies, warm weather," says Gold. He crosses the room to remove his coat, tossing it with his saddlebag over the back of his favourite armchair, the one of black dragon's hide. He has told me it is from the same beast who provided him with that lovely maroon creation he wears on the best of occasions. "And a decent deal. A fellow asking for a reduced size in his nose. It was quite a spectacle."

"What did you get in return?" My back is to him as I close the leaded windows. "Unborn babe? A soul?"

My love grins, malice glinting in his gaze. "Ah, let's just say he won't be nearly as talkative of a fellow for the next ten years."

"His voice?" I am surprised.

"Indeed. Then there was the boy with the cow…."

"Three magic beans," I guess, sitting on the bed. He stands before our wardrobe, unbuttoning his brocade vest, following his silken shirt. I watch as he rubs sore shoulders. With a sigh, I slide from the bed to stand behind him. Without the limp, he's now about five inches taller than me. Gently, I remove his hands to begin kneading the pebbled flesh myself.

"Right again."

I can practically hear his approving smirk.

"Rum, you're home early. Not that I mind in the least."

"Good. I say, if you were, I could always go away-"

I swat him lightly. "No, you wouldn't, you foul man. You couldn't stand to, and you know it."

He growls, turning his head to nip at my fingers. "Oh, it would be all too easy with such an ill-tempered girl await me. One whose words are black, and fists are swift."

"But kisses are swifter," I counter, pecking him on his sharp cheek. "my love. Tell me, what did you bring this bitter girl who apparently is mentally and physically abusive to such a poor soul as yourself?"

"Ah-ha!" laughs Gold, swinging around to tackle me to the mattress. "That's what she is after!"

Coy, I wiggle beneath him. "Mayhaps."

"Very well, ungrateful wench." Sighing heavily, he stands and crosses to the armchair to find his saddlebag and retrieve from its depths a small box.

"Come here, Ophelia."

With those words, I'm suddenly thrown back, months and months, to the week after we first discussed having a family.

**-XXX-**

_**One year, eight months prior….**_

"Come here, Ophelia."

The tone is gentle. I hesitate in standing and crossing to the bed. We have spent a dull evening reading in our room. All I have found to occupy myself is watching old episodes of _America's Next Top Model _on my Ipod. He, on the other hand, has been reading the paper. Sydney Glass's name blazes across the page. I am so sick of reading, myself.

He's holding a small velvet box, bright red, the kind that typically holds jewelry. Particularly, rings. I think back to our conversation of just a week ago. But I quickly allow the thought to dissipate. Surely it can be nothing of that nature?

Though, it is curious. Mr. Gold has never given me anything before, at least, not out right. There have been clothes, the credit card slyly tucked into my wallet, the books, etc. But nothing like jewelry. No cards, or flowers, or chocolates. Wine, occasionally, to share. Besides that, nothing exceedingly romantic. I am unsure of how to feel about this-and I haven't even seen it yet.

"Our discussion last week made me believe that you are unsatisfied in the unusual nature of our relationship," he began in a low voice. "And, naturally, I sought to remedy that. I knew you would be opposed to any sort of legal binding. So, I thought perhaps something a little more symbolic might suit you."

With a flourish, he offers forth the box, flicking the brass latch and popping open the lid with a lovely snap.

And it's a ring.

Nestled in cream-colour satin rests the loveliest ring. It is a band of silver, sweeping into a V with a vine-like pattern of cut-outs leading to a marquise-cut amethyst that sits center of the V. The vines scroll upward to frame the stone beautifully. The setting is even pretty, set with chips of what may or may not be cubic zirconium, but what I rather suspect to be diamond. In the lamplight, the center gem sparkles with a brilliant purple fire. I can do nothing but stare at the small box in my hand. Sure, I'd been anticipating jewelry, yet nothing like this.

"I am afraid it is not new," he tells me softly.

"That is perfectly alright," I whisper in a halting whisper. "Gives it character."

He chuckles. "You can take it out, you know. It is for wearing."

"Oh, yes," I say faintly. When I fail to remove the ring, however, Mr. Gold develops a put-upon look and removes the jewelry himself, slipping on my middle finger without much ceremony.

"There. Lovely."

"Yes."

He lifts my hand up into the light. "Very lovely. My dear, I do hope—" he hesitates. "This isn't what you might suspect it to be. I merely mean for it to represent a promise, a reminder. Unless, that is, you would want….?"

"Ah," I feel the urge to recoil, but sit passively beside him. "Not particularly."

This doesn't upset him, to my relief. It had been anticipated. Naturally.

I stretch out on the bed beside him, snuggling close. The affectionate motion seems to relax him greatly. For a while we just sit comfortably beside one another, talking of a variety of things-the town's clock, Regina's recent behavior, our new shipment of Polish pottery coming in next week, etc. Time passes slowly, but for once, I don't particularly mind. Rain lazily pelts our windows, adding a further level to the mood. Eventually, Mr. Gold suggests we ready ourselves for bed.

**-XXX-**

The ring hadn't followed me here, which I'd realized with great disappointment the day after we had returned. Only now, here before me, nesting in the center of this tiny wooden box (rosewood, probably from the Guldian forests to the north) is that exact ring. Or, at least, a very good replica.

"You like it?" Rum asks softly. I sit, open mouthed. "Ophelia?"

"Oh, _yes_." I breathe. His face alights in a smile, sincere and natural and just for me.

"I searched the entire kingdom for a silversmith competed and skillful enough to create this." When I look up, he adds hastily, "I knew magic couldn't replace craftsmanship, not by a long shot. So, I sketched a few designs, kidnapped a few jewelers…_voila_!"

Staring into the fire of the amethyst's center, I am transfixed. Gold chuckles beside me. I finally look up to meet his amused gaze. Since our "_true love's kiss_," specific aspects of him have altered to appear slightly more human. His eyes, for instance, are smaller, more hazel. Then his skin, which has faded in it's colouring. Still grey-gold, with tinges of green, but now it's paler-nearly human. The texture still has a particular scaliness to it. But even so, he could almost pass for a regular guy.

"It's perfect. _You're _perfect. You are brilliant and thoughtful and, dear lord, I _love you._"

It isn't the first time I've said it in the last year or so. We've worked slowly, progressing to saying the three-word phrase on special occasions over the course of six or so months. I don't think it will ever be a casual thing for us. Not ever. That's perfectly fine, however. Then I don't think the words would mean as much. The thirty-one year journey we've taken to get here would not be quite as valued. They need to be valued.

Rum says nothing, but smiles. He gestures toward the box. I pass it over. With a flourish, the magician opens the box to remove the ring. He examines it briefly, polishing it on the shelve of his shirt before extending one hand. The fingers are wiggled in an animated manner, indicating that he wants my limb. I place my hand in his with an _"oh-please-you-dork" _expression. He counters this with raised brows, clearly saying "_ah-my-love-you-know-you-appreciate-it." _

"And, my dear, with this ring…."

"Oh, don't say it." I beg.

He looks surprised. "What?"

"_'With I thee wed.'_"

Rum has the dignity not to laugh. "Of course not, my love. We've discussed this."

And so we had. Marriage isn't in our stars. Not yet, anyways. We're dedicated, loyal, bound to one another. In nearly every way, we are "together." Still, Rum is insistent that we "prevent" the formalities of a ceremony until he's a little more un-cursed. He's still changing, you see, bit by bit. I asked once, why it was still occurring.

"Because," he answered fondly. "We're still building love, my love. True love doesn't simply _happen." _

He's perfectly right, of course.

"I don't need a ring to remind me where my heart belongs," I tell him quietly. "You know that, Rum."

"Of course," he acknowledges, dipping his head. "But I thought you might like to have it back. Besides, everyone needs a reminder, sometimes, of the one they love."

"Oh? And do you have one of me? A reminder, I mean?"

He flicks his fingers carelessly, withdrawing from the air some mist I can only assumed was bore by the lake, spinning it with one finger, then snapping once. The ring of mist stopped mid-spin, hung in the air, one _snap _more, and a cool silver band dropped to Gold's palm. I lift it, turning the silver in my hand. One could hardly tell it to be magic-made. The metal is still warm. I smile, feeling my heart flutter as butterfly wings in the center of my chest.

The band is slipped onto his center fingers of his left hand. For several minutes we sit, staring at one another's hands in quiet wonderment. It's nothing much, really, these rings, yet I can't help but feel as though they're sealing the deal. It's _us. _For real. Legit.

My memories have, for the most part, surfaced. However, I'm stuck living with a triple-life in my head, spread between our time in Storybrooke, my mysterious dreams (of which Rum claims to have no part in), and our year here. When I made a deal to meet with the most cunning of tricksters twice a month under the darkest and brightest moon. They're vague now, the worse of the three. Still, I've become rather adept at balancing. One can only hope I'll soon learn to juggle. Three lives is something already difficult to bear.

Gold-or Rumpelstilskin, whichever he prefers at any given moment-promises that things will be easier. He doesn't know why I was different, why I defied the norms of the spell, but he isn't nearly as troubled by it as before. Turns out, I'm not such a different person, after all. Not old, not new, not too different. Simply Ophelia.

Which is one of his theories. "Everyone essentially changed from what they were. Their happy endings taken away," said Rum, swiftly while we sit over a late dinner one night shortly after our return. "But you…well, you're still the bookbinder's daughter. Still the little sister, still in the same state of half-happiness. Your life was empty-"

"Gee, thanks."

He ignored me. "-and you were just content enough to leave well-enough alone. Essentially, you hadn't changed."

It is an interesting idea. I'll give him that.

After a hearty silence, Rum shifts from the bed to stand before the wardrobe once more, hoping to remove the rest of his attire. But I pull him back. As we speak, discussing the goings-on of the castle in his absence, I unlace his boots.

"Any news from town, my love?"

I twist my lips. "There is never any news."

"Well, perhaps not." chuckles Gold. "Nothing of Charming and Snow? Nothing of our Savior Emma? Henry?"

"Well," I admit. "A few trifles, though I am sure you would know better than I. The only news, besides that, is the recent shipment of books from the northern cities."

His eyes alight. "Oh?"

"Roughly half the wagonload was for me." My tone is slightly apologetic. Slightly. He never seems to care, really, how much I spend on sillier things-books, hair ribbons, comfortably-sized bird cages-or if he does, displays it not. Money, it would seem, is no object. "And a good deal of them require repairs."

"Good." He is satisfied. "Your hands long for labor. It shall keep you busy."

I swat him again, though, his is right. I have been entirely bored as of late. The castle is barren. Without even so much as a bird to talk to, it is all too easy to live a dull life. I was raised between four brothers and two sisters. Alone? I was never alone as a child. Bookish I may be, but I'm not a hermit, thank you.

"I missed you."

We're beneath the sheets now. I'm turning the ivory end of my hairbrush, still sitting up in bed. The oil lamps have been extinguished. Moonlight seeps in, brushing the planks of the floor with glorious silver light, painting long shadows. I watch the shadows as they blur, flicker. Rum stretches out next to me in bed. His limp, now gone, is sometime recalled in these moments when he does things that might have once struck me as weird. Every so often, the bad leg will spasm with memory. I massage it when this happens. He says it's a sign of our progress. I say I don't care what he looks like, I just want to stay.

Rum visibly softens. He rolls on the pillow, facing me. The gold-green eyes are glassy, lazy with contentment. Before coming here I'd never seen him so lax. "I missed you, as well."

We both know he's not speaking of the "now," necessarily. It's the "always."

"Good to know."

He smiles. "Yes."

With that, I lay back, curling into him. Nimble fingers trail over my stomach, leading to arms tightly wrapping around my waist. For a while, we talk into the darkness, telling stories, asking questions. Then, when we both begin to fade into sleep, our voices grow heavy, and finally silence altogether. He shifts slightly, holding me closer. Against my back, I can feel deep breaths. Rum has found sleep, immersing in glorious and profound REMs. My eyes cannot yet close, though. They're drawn to the pearl in the sky; the moon. Bold and bright. Crying silently into her midnight world.

Once upon a time, I wished on that exact moon. More than life, more than anything…

With a touch of luck, a breath of wit, I'd found what I wanted without even knowing I wanted it. And then, when all was lost, I'd found my way back to it.

Of course, he wouldn't let me go any other way.

But, then again, I couldn't have it any other way, too.

THE END

**It's been a whirlwind of a story- - - the first 20 chapters written over the course of ten ****days. The bulk was meant to be in the fairy tale world. It wasn't supposed to be over 15 chapters. Ha, funny how things happen. I'm so grateful for all of your support. I sincerely hope ****you've enjoyed this, and continue reading my stuff in the future. I'm not done with OUaT, not by a long shot. I've had the best readers. Last time I checked( mind you, I'm writing this on March 23, 2012) we're just 5 reviews shy of hitting 400. That's amazing. That's the most I've ever pulled in. **

**Please continue reviewing! You guys are brilliant, and I could not have chugged on without the enormous amount of support I've received from the community. I can't say how much your feedback has uplifted me. The OUaT community is one I'm proud to be a part of. **

**To finish, I will conclude with something I promised about 44 chapters ago. This story was inspired by several tales of folklore. Many guessed Beauty and the Beast. Which is partially right, as East of the Sun, West of the Moon could be called a variation of- - - - at the very least, it's an Aarne-Thompson type 425A, which is very similar to Beauty and the Beast. Robin McKinley's work as a whole really influnced me, as well as Meg Cabot and Jane Austen. Another piece that I used as inspiration was **_**Keturah and Lord Death**_**, which That0negirl correctly guessed. **

**You're all brilliant! Thanks a million. **


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